Contact
by Deanish
Summary: A 'what might have been.' What if the demon had stayed in hibernation for just a little longer?
1. Chapter 1

Hey. Now that this is finished, I'm asking you for a favor. If you're reading this for the first time, let me know what you think. Especially if you get to the end of the chapter and decide not to keep reading. I promise I won't cry. Just send me a comment or a personal message and let me know what turned you off. I'm planning revisions, and constructive criticism will be much appreciated.

Thanks, and enjoy – hopefully!

Chapter 1

Sam took a deep breath, dialed the number and began to pray: Please let it be Dean, please let it be Dean.

"Hello?"

Shoot. Not Dean.

" … Dad?"

"Sam? Is that you?"

"Yeah, Dad, it's me."

"What's wrong? Are you all right?"

Huh, Sam mused. He almost sounds sincerely concerned.

"Nothing's wrong, Dad. I'm fine."

Pause … long pause.

"Oh. OK," John finally said.

Not 'thank God,' Sam noted, or even 'oh, good.' He wondered if his Dad would rather something was wrong. It would give him a chance to say, 'I told you so.' Sam swallowed a growl and decided not to dwell on it.

"Uh, actually, Dad, I was hoping to talk to Dean."

Another pause, not quite as long though. Maybe that was progress?

"Dean, huh?" John said – and Sam wondered if he had heard disappointment that time. "He's, uh – he's not here."

This time it was Sam's turn to pause as his heart began to race. Why wouldn't Dean be there? Where else would he be? Had something happened? Surely John would have called … wouldn't he? Shoot. Had Sam ignored any calls from him lately? Had John tried to call?

"What –" Sam's voice squeaked a little, so he started over. "What do you mean, he's not there? What happened?"

"What happened?" John seemed confused by the question.

"Why isn't he there?" Sam spit out impatiently.

"He's not here because he's got a job in South Carolina," John said – still confused, but moving toward anger.

That stopped Sam again.

A job? Had Dean left, too?

"A … job?"

"Yeah. A job."

"What … kind of … job?"

What would Dean do? Sam tried to remember something from childhood – a career Dean had expressed interest in – but he came up blank. All he could remember Dean saying he wanted to be as a child was "just like my Daddy."

"A poltergeist, Sam," and Sam could hear the irritation. "What's going on? I didn't think you and Dean talked much."

A poltergeist. Not a Job job. A job. A regular hunting job. Dean must just be doing them by himself now.

Sam wondered why he felt relieved instead of disappointed.

"Sam?" John asked. He must have surpassed the pause time limit that time.

"Yeah. Sorry Dad. I just thought …" Sam sighed. "Never mind."

John's answering sigh was more like a growl.

"Sam," he snapped. "Answer me. What's going on. Why'd you call? Far as I knew, you and Dean hadn't talked since you left."

The 'either' was only implied. Sam hadn't talked to anyone in his family for four years. Something in the back of his throat began burning at that thought.

He felt guilty. But not guilty enough to tell his Dad the news. He wasn't ready for that yet. He was afraid John would somehow manage to suck all the good out.

"Uh … nothing, Dad. I just need- wanted to talk to Dean."

Another pause. Sam could almost hear John's teeth grinding. 'Dean and not me,' he would be thinking.

"Fine," John finally bit out. "555 381 9201. That all?"

Sam swallowed. Maybe he should go ahead and tell him.

His stomach flipped at the thought.

No. He'd practice on Dean first. Heck, maybe Dean would even be willing to break the news.

"Uh, yeah. Thanks. I'll … uh." He'd almost said talk to you later. But after four years, the standard sign off seemed ludicrous. "Thanks, Dad. 'Bye."

He hurried to hang up, then leaned against the wall feeling out of breath.

Shoot. And he still hadn't gotten it over with. He still had to call Dean.

He took a deep breath, tried to stop panting and started dialing the numbers Dad had rattled off. It was harder than normal because his hands were shaking.

Just before hitting send, he paused, finger over the button. After a slight hesitation, he changed course, slowing pushing down the save button instead. D-E-A-N, he typed. And then, after another hesitation, hit save again.

For some reason, putting his brother's number into his phone book felt uncomfortable. Like something wedged into the toe of your shoe so that your feet didn't fit in right. Or a small pebble lodged under a fingernail. Maybe a piece of ice caught in your throat. It just didn't feel like Dean fit into his life anymore.

Maybe he shouldn't call after all.

BRRRRIIIINNNGGG.

Sam jumped a mile, then looked down at the phone vibrating in his hand.

'Dean,' the display said. Dad must have called him.

To ignore the call would be unthinkably cruel, but Sam thought about it anyway. Thought about it, but couldn't do it. Without his mind's permission, Sam's hand was pushing the button to accept the call.

"Hello?" There was that squeak again.

"Sam? You OK?"

Sam snorted. His family seemed to have given up on hello – welfare inquiries were now the customary greeting.

"I'm fine, Dean. Geez. I told Dad that."

"Yeah, well … " Dean said, and Sam could hear the relief in his voice. Dean hadn't been hoping for a 'told you so' opening.

His brother cleared his throat, then moved on. "So, what's up?"

Sam huffed a sigh.

"OK, Tactless," he said. "Geez, man – don't you at least want to say hello? How've you been? Maybe even give me a chance to ask you the same?"

He heard Dean growl a little bit in the background.

"What, Sam? You really want to try and catch up on four years of small talk? I ain't got time for that crap."

Something froze in Sam's chest at the words. He sighed again.

"So what? Straight to business? No niceties?"

"Yeah, I think so," Dean said. He sounded tired.

"OK. Fine then. Straight to business." He took a deep breath. Was he really ready for this?

"I'mgettingmarriedinJuneandIwantedyoutobemybestman."

Apparently not.

Shoot. No way Dean understood that. Now he was going to have to say it again.

"Uh. Come again?" Dean said.

See?

Another deep breath, and this time let it out before you try and spit out the words.

OK. Maybe just one more deep breath.

"Sam?"

Right.

"I'm, uh, getting married in June. And I … uh … I wanted to see if you'd, you know … be-my-best-man."

The last four words still came out kind of rushed, and Sam prayed Dean had understood them. He didn't think he could say them again.

Pause.

More pause.

Very long pause.

"Dean? You there?"

Throat-clearing noises.

"Yeah. Uh." Apparently the throat clearing didn't work – Dean still sounded hoarse. "Married?"

"Yeah," Sam softened, his voice relaxing a little at the sound of the word. "Married."

"Wow, man. Uh. Congratulations."

"Thanks." For some reason, that came out as a whisper.

"Married. Wow," Dean repeated. "Who's the girl?"

Sam felt a smile he couldn't suppress spread across his face.

"Her name's Jessica. And man – you should see her. She's so out of my league. In every way. She's … gorgeous. And smart – she's pre-med. She's going to med school here while I do law school. And she-"

"Law school?" Dean interrupted. He had that hoarse sound again.

'Oh yeah,' Sam thought. He didn't know about that.

"Uh. Yeah. Law school," he said. "I got officially accepted a few weeks ago. That's … that's when I proposed. She hasn't officially gotten into med school here yet, but med schools, they take longer. There's no doubt. She's got a 4.0 and completely aced her MCAT … "

He knew he was babbling, but he couldn't stop.

" … And her recommendations were stellar. So, you know. It's going to happen. Med school takes longer than law school, but, you know. That's OK. I mean, they need lawyers everywhere, right? I can go wherever she needs to for her residencies, and then when she's done, we'll find somewhere to settle down. Maybe a small town. And she'll start a practice and I'll start a practice. And after things get settled – you know. Maybe a baby."

"A baby?" Dean asked, as if this was another announcement Sam was springing on him.

"Well … I mean … not yet, you know. Just. Someday." Sam hurried to stipulate.

"Wow," Dean said again. "Congratulations." It sounded like he was the one having trouble catching his breath now.

"Yeah, man. Thanks," Sam said, quietly. And then, "So will you?"

Pause.

"Will I … ?"

Sam rolled his eyes. That had been the whole point of the conversation.

"Will you be my best man?"

Pause.

"Sam … man … of course. I mean, if that's what you want. But if … I mean … don't you want to ask one of your college friends? I … I would understand."

Sam sighed. He had thought about it. But it just hadn't felt right. Like wearing a too-tight jacket. And since that ice caught in his throat seemed to be melting, this was better.

"Naw, man. It should be you. I mean – that's what normal people do, right?" he asked, putting comical stress on the word normal. It was an old joke between them. "Normal people ask their brothers."

Dean snorted. "And we both know how you feel about normal."

It was a little lame for Dean, as jokes went. But only because four years ago it would have been too obvious to bother with.

"Yeah," Sam agreed anyway. "So you'll do it?"

"Uh. Yeah. I guess I will."

"And …"

"And what?"

"And … what are the chances you'd tell Dad for me?"

"Sam!"

"I know. But … "

"Sam!"

Sigh. "Yeah. All right. Had to ask."

"Why? This kind of news should come from you."

"Yeah," he said. And again: "Yeah." Another sigh.

A pause and then Dean echoed the sigh.

"Aw Sam. Come on. It won't be that bad. This is good news, right?"

"I thought getting a full ride to Stanford was good news, too."

"Yeah, but … this is different."

"How?"

"I don't know, but …"

"It's not."

Sighs from both ends this time.

"All right. I'll tell him."

"Really?!"

Sigh. "Yeah. But you owe me. You're buying me a lap dance at your bachelor's party."

Sam grinned.

"All right. Deal." And then, "Thanks, man."

"Yeah, yeah." Pause. "So. When do I get to meet the missus?"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Dean was asleep when the phone rang. It was early afternoon, but he'd been driving all night and was scheduled to see a man about a ghost after sunset. So he thought his dad should have been more forgiving of his rather unintelligible, "'Lo?"

"Dean? Get up."

"Hmm?"

"Get up. Something's wrong with your brother."

OK. Now he was up.

"Sam? What? What's wrong?"

"I don't know. But he called."

John's explanation stopped there, as though that had filled in all of the blanks Dean was drawing.

Dean blinked a few times, waiting for more.

"He called?" he finally repeated. "What did he say? Was he hurt? Did he sound hurt? Or scared?"

"No – I mean. Said he wasn't. But I don't know. I mean – he called right?"

Dean nodded stupidly. Something had to be up for Sam to call.

"What'd he say?" he repeated.

"He didn't say anything," John said. Then contradicted himself. "Said he was looking for you."

"Me? Why'd he call you then?"

"I guess he didn't know you had your own phone now."

Dean nodded again. He'd only had it for six months.

"I gave him your number so-"

"Wait. You gave him my number? Dad! He could be trying to call right now!"

"Shit. Yeah. OK. Uh. 'Bye. Call me after you talk to him."

Click.

Dean immediately moved the phone away from his ear and stared hard at it to see if the symbol indicating a voice mail would appear. No new voicemails were showing up, but sometimes it took awhile. He could call and check – but then he'd be on the phone again, and what if Sam called while he was checking? He might have call waiting, but he didn't know, never needed it before – didn't know enough people to make simultaneous calls likely.

Screw it. He was just going to call Sam himself.

He hit No. 2 and send.

It rang twice and he suddenly wondered what would happen if Sam was trying to call him at this exact moment. Crap. When had telephones gotten so complicated?

But then "Hello?"

Relief.

"Sam? You OK?" The boy had kind of squeaked on the word. It was hard to get much from the greeting.

Sam snorted, and Dean felt his backbone melt. He was OK.

"I'm fine Dean. Geez. I told Dad that."

"Yeah, well …" Dean meant to follow that up with something witty, but couldn't quiet the "he's OK, he's OK, he's OK' chorus ringing in his head down enough to think of anything. He cleared his throat and tried to drain the emotion from his voice.

"So. What's up?"

He heard Sam huff and rolled his eyes. How had he already messed up?

"OK, Tactless," Sam said. "Geez, man – don't you at least want to say hello? How've you been? Maybe even give me a chance to ask you the same?"

Dean tightened his grip on the phone and tried to suppress a growl of frustration – without much success.

'Yeah,' he thought. 'I would have loved to have been having that exact conversation – about three years ago.'

"What Sam? You really want to try and catch up on four years of small talk? I ain't got time for that crap."

The words tasted bad coming out, and he wished he hadn't said them. They weren't true. He did want to catch up on four years of small talk. He'd make time if he thought Sam would. But he didn't – think Sam would, that is.

"So what? Straight to business? No niceties?"

Dean grimaced. 'No,' he thought. But said, "Yeah, I think so."

"OK. Fine then. Straight to business."

Dean hear Sam take a deep breath, and he braced himself, suddenly worried. Was he really ready for this? He couldn't think of a single good thing that would lead Sam to call.

'He's sick,' Dean thought. 'He said he's fine, but he only meant right now. He meant fine according to the Winchester definition. He's sick. He's dying. Cancer, right? Everyone gets cancer these days.'

He almost didn't hear what Sam actually said.

No. Scratch that. He actually didn't hear it. Since when did Sam mumble?

"Uh. Come again?"

Another deep breath. And another. Dean was about to fall off the bed in nervous anticipation.

"Sam?" he begged.

"I'm, uh, getting married in June, and I, uh, wanted to see if you'd, you know. Be-my-best-man."

At first Dean thought he'd missed it again. He'd been expecting something along the lines of, 'The doctors say I have a week to live,' and it took a moment to reset.

Married? Is that what he'd said?

Dean's ears began to ring, and the spots dancing in his eyes made him realize he hadn't blinked in a long time.

Married. It was the one thing he'd somehow never prepared for. He would never ever say or even think that it was worse than Sam actually being sick.

But in some ways it felt the same.

No way Sam was ever coming back now.

"Dean? You there?

Dean coughed a little to try and find his voice.

"Yeah, uh … " he sounded horrible. Surely he could do better. "Married?" OK, no he couldn't. That was an echo of his thoughts that had slipped out on its own.

"Yeah, married." And Sam sounded happy.

"Wow, man," Dean tried to keep his voice from shaking. What were you supposed to say to that?

Oh yeah: "Uh – congratulations."

"Thanks," and Dean thought he really meant it.

"Married. Wow." And this time, Dean really meant it.

"Who's the girl?"

He's not sure he meant that, though. Did he really want to know?

But, again, he could hear the smile in Sam's voice.

"Her name's Jessica. And man, you should see her. She's so out of my league."

Dean had to smile, too, at that. He was sure Sam believed it – after all, if he were to believe Dean, Sam would assume they didn't make girls that were in his league.

" … In every way," Sam continued. "She's … gorgeous. And smart. She's pre-med. She's going to med school here, while I do law school. And she – "

Wait. What?

"Law school?" Voice squeak again. But shit. Law school? When … What … How? Law school? Sam? A lawyer?

"Uh, yeah. Law school," Sam said. "I got officially accepted a few weeks ago. That's when I proposed. She hasn't officially gotten into med school here, yet. But med schools, they take longer. There's no doubt. She's got a … "

Dean tuned out for a minute while Sam babbled. Law school. Crap. Sure Sam had talked about wanting to be a lawyer. But that's the kind of thing people say, right? Most people wash out, right?

And no way law school was cheap. Sam hadn't said it, but Dean was smelling another free ride in the offing. The realization brought some pride and a lot of guilt. Sure, he'd known Sam was smart. Smarter even than Dean, which really was saying something – regardless of what his grades might indicate to the contrary. But. Free rides to Stanford Law surely didn't grow on trees. How smart did you have to be to earn that? And what did it say about Dean that he had wanted to hold Sam back?

For all he knew, Sam was MENSA-level genius. And Dean had tried to talk him out of college. To go hunting.

Sure it wasn't hillbillies shooting deer to decorate their trailer homes, but you don't ask Einstein to give up physics to chase monsters. No matter what killed his mother.

Suddenly he picked back up on Sam's ramblings.

" … a baby."

"A baby?" Dean couldn't keep the shock out of his voice.

"Well, I mean, not yet. You know. Just someday."

That helped a little. But still. A baby. Sam really was reaching for that apple pie life with both hands. Dean would never even consider bringing a child into the world. Not with what they'd seen. How had Sam come to such a different conclusion?

And then the thought hit him: He'd be an uncle.

"Wow," he said, genuinely stunned. "Congratulations."

And he meant it.

"Yeah man, thanks. So will you?"

Uh. Shoot. Had he missed something while he tuned out?

"Will I …?"

He could practically hear Sam rolling his eyes.

"Will you be my best man?"

It took Dean a moment to think back.

Right. Wedding. That's what had started all this to begin with.

And then: Best man. Sam wanted him to be there, with him. He could hardly believe it – even less could he believe how great that made him feel.

Surely it was too good to be true.

"Sam. Man. Of course. I mean – if that's what you want. But if – I mean. Don't you want to ask one of your college friends? I," and this was hard, "I would understand."

Sam sighed, and Dean thought he was going to take him up on the offer – a sigh of relief that Dean had given him an out.

But: "Naw, man. It should be you."

Tears did not just cloud up Dean's eyes.

" … I mean, that's what normal people do, right? Normal people ask their brothers."

Dean laughed at that. Of course – if it was normal …

"And we both know how you feel about normal," he said to let Sam know he'd gotten the reference.

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "So you'll do it?"

"Uh. Yeah," Dean said, still feeling overwhelmed. "I guess I will."

"And?"

Had there bee more? What all had Dean missed?

"And … what?"

"And … what are the chances you'd tell Dad for me?"

"Sam!" He couldn't believe he'd just heard that.

"I know, but – "

"Sam!" Nuh uh. No way was he getting in the middle of that. And how would John feel, knowing that Sam had been on the phone with him but chose not to tell him?

Sam sighed, and Dean could taste victory.

"Yeah, all right. Had to ask."

'Uh, no you didn't,' he thought. But said, "Why? That kind of news should come from you."

"Yeah," Sam said, but doubtfully. "Yeah."

Another sigh, and Dean felt victory slipping away.

"Aw, Sam. Come on! It won't be that bad. This is good news, right?"

"I thought getting a full ride to Stanford was good news, too," Sam said quietly.

Oh yeah. Right.

"Yeah, but this is different," Dean tried, weakly.

Sam apparently smelled the weakness.

"How?"

Shoot. Good question.

"I don't know. But … "

"It's not."

Yeah. Sigh. He's right. It had only been good news to Dean because it made Sam happy. In every other way, it was a disaster. In every other way, it was Sam moving further away. And John would probably only see it that way. Happiness almost always involved rebellion where Sam was concerned.

"All right. I'll tell him."

"Really!?"

He was so, so tempted to say no. Instead he sighed.

"Yeah. But you owe me!" Then inspiration struck. "You're buying me a lap dance at your bachelor's party."

He could hear Sam's grin return.

"All right. Deal. Thanks, man."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said. But he meant it as a very sincere 'You're welcome.'

"So," he said, trying to screw up the courage he'd need to sound completely happy. "When do I get to meet the missus?"


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"All right man. I'll see you in a few weeks." Dean almost stumbled over those words, they sounded so good. "And I mean it – congratulations."

Sam said thanks and goodbye and see you soon, then hung up.

Dean leaned back on the bed and pulled the phone away from his ear. It was hot. The display blinked, "Sam" and "2:31:54." The total amount of time they'd been on. Dean wanted to take a picture. It felt miraculous, and people liked to document the miraculous, right?

But after a second it stopped blinking and went back to its normal display.

Dean dropped it on the nightstand.

And, immediately, it started ringing. He jumped a mile.

"Dad," the display now informed him.

"How'd you do that?" he said by way of greeting.

"Do what?" John growled.

"Know that I was off? I'd just hung up the phone."

"I've been calling for the past two hours!" John exploded. "What the hell were you two talking about for so long."

Oh. Huh. So he didn't have call waiting. Good to know.

"Oh … Well … " Dean hedged.

"Is your brother OK?" John asked. There was an edge to his voice that wasn't anger, and suddenly Dean felt guilty. He would have been going nuts for the past two hours if the tables had been turned.

"Yeah. Dad – he's fine. It's nothing like that."

John released what sounded like a lungful of air.

"Thank God," he murmured, almost too soft for Dean to hear. "What is it then? He need money? Help? He wasn't in jail was he?"

"What?! No, Dad. Come on. This is Sam. He's not in jail, and he wouldn't ask us for money."

Pause.

"He ready to come home?"

Dean closed his eyes. The way John said it was almost a plea.

"No, Dad. It's not that either. Sam – he's getting married. In June. And going to law school after that."

Silence. Dean felt obligated to fill it.

"He met a girl. Jessica. They've been dating for awhile, and he asked her to marry him a couple of weeks ago after he got accepted to Stanford Law. She's planning to go to Stanford's medical school. The wedding's June 16."

More silence. Then, "He's … getting married?" and in those three words, Dean heard all the emotions he was feeling. Relief that Sam was doing so well. Happiness for the joy it would bring him.

Disappointment. And the finality of it.

"Yeah, I know," Dean said.

"Are we … invited?"

"Yeah. Actually … that's why he was calling. He asked me to be best man."

Silence. Dean knew John was thinking about why Sam hadn't mentioned it when he called for Dean's number. But he also knew John wouldn't ask. He decided to jump ahead.

"But, yeah. We're invited. And I think he'll even invite Caleb and Pastor Jim. Maybe Bobby – though I can't see him at a wedding. But he'll want them to be discreet. He said he would have liked to have Jim officiate. But Jessica has a pastor she's grown up with, and since she's religious and he's not, strictly speaking, he thought she should get her way."

John snorted a sad laugh at that.

"Whipped, huh?"

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Sounds like."

More silence.

"I'm, uh, going to make a trip up there at the beginning of next month. Meet her, you know. If … you … want to come with – "

"Naw," John interrupted. "There's this Woman in White to take care of. And then I want to check out a national park in Colorado. Hikers disappearing."

Dean nodded, but didn't say anything. Nothing really to say. They both knew it was an excuse.

"And you don't stay too long, either," John said. "I've got a voodoo problem in New Orleans I want you to look into."

Dean shrugged, but said, "Yeah. Not too long."

And then, "Dad … "

"Yeah?"

"Don't you want … "

"What?"

"Never mind. Keep June open. I'll talk to you later."

"Right."

Click.

Sigh.

Dean was glad he'd agreed to break the news. He didn't think Sam would have been happy with the way that conversation had gone.

He lay still for a moment then looked at the clock. Shoot. 4:30. He glanced at the window. He guessed he had maybe three more hours until sundown. Not enough time to really catch up, but a cat nap would have to do.

He dropped the phone on the nightstand again and tensed, waiting to see if it was going to ring. It didn't, so he burrowed back down under the covers and closed his eyes.

Sammy. Married.

Huh.

And went to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The discordant chimes of the cheap doorbell sounded, and Sam froze. He looked up from where he was setting their rickety dining table to the counter where Jess was chopping the lettuce for a salad. He'd told her Dean wouldn't touch anything green, but she'd insisted that when you invite someone over for dinner, there's always a salad. He'd bowed to her superior knowledge – he hadn't had much experience in dinner party etiquette.

Jessica matched his stare and raised him an eyebrow and a shrug. Her look said, 'Well? Answer it, already.'

And Sam took a deep breath. He carefully set down the last salad bowl, squared his shoulders and turned toward the door. He thought about getting Jessica to join him – but no. Dean would think it was too Leave it to Beaver if they answered the door together.

By the time he was reaching for the knob, the doorbell was sounding again. He looked back at Jessica. She cocked her head at him and smiled encouragingly.

He opened the door and prepared to say hello.

"Dude. How long you gonna' make me stand out here?" Dean bawled before he had a chance.

And Sam snorted. The tension he'd been worried about was already broken.

"That depends – you been house trained yet?"

Dean p'shawed and pushed through Sam into the apartment. He was holding a shiny purple gift bag with curly ribbons attached to the handle. As he turned in a circle taking the apartment in, he shoved it at Sam.

"Here. Happy wedding."

"Ooof" was Sam's response. Dean had shoved it kind of hard.

"It's happy engagement, Doofus. Not happy wedding."

But Dean was already making his way further in. Besides, happy engagement didn't sound quite right, either.

"You're Jessica?" Sam heard Dean say with that tone in his voice.

Shoot. He'd meant to make a proper introduction.

"Geez, Sam," Dean called over his shoulder. "You said she was out of you league, but dang."

Sam made his way back toward the two. Jessica raised her eyebrows at him, but smiled and turned back to Dean.

"You, on the other hand," she told him, "are exactly what Sam described."

Now Dean was raising his eyebrows at Sam.

Sam decided to take over.

"Uh, Jess. This is Dean. Dean, this is Jessica," he said. It sounded lame. Oh well.

"Look, Jess," he said with sudden inspiration. He shoved Dean's present into her hands. "It's our first engagement present."

"Ooh. Goodie," Jess squealed. She loved presents.

She reached in, pulled the contents halfway out and stopped.

"Uh." She looked from Sam to Dean and back, amused confusion in her smile. "Hmm."

Sam moved behind her to get a better look, then snorted.

"Dean!"

Inside were what appeared to be several pairs of black silk boxer shorts.

"Hey, I've heard all about those engagement parties where you get pretty underwear," Dean said innocently. "This is what normal people do, dude."

"Uh, no. Normal people go to Crate and Barrel and pick something off the registry," Sam said.

Dean looked at him blankly.

"Lingerie parties are for girls, Dean."

Dean shrugged. "Hey, if the boxers fit … "

Sam grabbed the most convenient thing off the counter and pulled back to throw it at his brother.

"Whoa whoa whoa," Jess said, prying the deviled egg out of Sam's hand. "Nuh uh. No food fights," she laughed. "Come on you guys, let's eat."

OOO

Dinner went well. Dean gamely picked at Jess's salad before gobbling down the steaks Sam grilled. And Jess earned his approval by thanking him profusely for the gift, going on and on about how great Sam would look in them. Any girl who could make Sam blush, well …

But then it happened, and Sam couldn't believe he hadn't thought to prepare for it.

Jessica was dishing out banana pudding for dessert when she asked the obvious question.

"So, Dean … What exactly do you do?"

Dean froze and sought out Sam's gaze.

Sam's deer-in-a-headlight stare probably wasn't reassuring.

"Uh. Well, actually … " Dean started. But Sam jumped in.

"CIA."

If Dean had just taken a drink, it clearly would have been dripping from his nose at this point. As it was, Sam noted that his mouth was hanging wide open.

"Come on, Dean," Sam said. "Jess is OK. You can tell her." Sam was all but winking to get the message across to Dean.

"Uh. Yeah … well. I guess, you know, you're almost family now," Dean said, shooting black looks in Sam's direction.

"Yeah," Sam jumped back in, relieved. "Yeah. But Jess – you can't mention it to anyone. Top secret and all."

Jess, for her part, looked about as confused as you would expect.

"Uh," she began. "OK. I mean, yeah. My lips are sealed."

She paused. Possibly she had thought they were joking and was now reevaluating their serious stares.

"Really? CIA? Like, a real, honest-to-goodness spy?"

"Well," Dean said, obviously warming to his topic. "It's not exactly like in the James Bond movies. But yeah. Life of mystery and intrigue. That's me."

"But," she turned to Sam, suspicion written across her face. "I thought you said he hadn't gone to college."

"Oh – yeah. Well. You know. That's his cover story. You know? I can't just go around telling every girl I meet that my brother's a spy."

Jess shrugged. She didn't seem to know what to believe. "I guess not." And then, "So who do you spy on?"

"Uh," Dean looked back to Sam for help. "Well. I can't go into too many details," he said, obviously stalling. Sam would have bet he was trying to remember the last Tom Clancy movie he'd seen. "But mostly … England."

"Really? We spy on England?"

"Oh yeah," Dean said emphatically. "Can't trust the British. I mean … Look what happened with … all that tea."

Jessica looked at him blankly for a moment and then burst out laughing.

"All right, all right. I get it. You can't tell me. Top secret and all that."

"Heh. Yeah," Dean said, weakly. "Sorry … If I did, I'd have to kill you."

He shot Sam a look that he interpreted as a call for a subject change.

"Hey!" Sam said. "Speaking of England …"

Huh. He couldn't think of any way to end that sentence.

" … Uh … Do we have any muffins?"

Jess looked at him like he was crazy.

"English muffins?" she ventured.

"Uh. Yeah. For Dean's breakfast tomorrow. You know – all that time spent in England. He insists on eating English muffins for breakfast every morning."

Jess glanced over at Dean who shrugged apologetically and nodded.

"Uh. No. I don't think so. But – I could go get some."

"Yeah!" Sam practically shouted. Jess raised her eyebrows at him again. They were getting quite the workout tonight. "Perfect. That'd be great."

She apparently decided to humor him, because she finally just chuckled and pushed away from the table.

"OK, sweetie," she said, kissing his head before she left to get her purse.

'Sweetie?' Dean mouthed at him. Sam picked up a leftover deviled egg.

"Anything else?" Jess called from the bedroom.

"Uh, maybe some … tea?" Sam called back.

"OK," Jess said, coming back in. "I'll be back in a few minutes. You boys behave."

And she left. And Sam was alone with his brother for the first time in four years.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

As soon as the door clicked shut, it started.

"You spy on England?" Sam hissed.

"Hey, you're the one who made me a freakin' CIA agent!" Dean returned. "And English muffins? Man, I hate English muffins. Now I'm gonna' have to eat them for breakfast."

Sam just looked at him, all squinty eyed, and repeated, "England?"

"Well, what was I supposed to say? It had to be somewhere that spoke English, right? Or next thing you know, she'd be wanting a demonstration of my Farsi."

Huh, Sam reflected. That was actually pretty sound logic. And … Farsi? He was a little surprised Dean even knew there was such a language.

But Dean was still talking.

"And since the only Farsi I know invokes a life force-sucking monster, that didn't seem like such a good idea."

Ah. That's now he knew about Farsi. Still, point for the England decision, anyway.

"All right," Sam said. "Fine … Agent Winchester."

Dean snorted. "Sure, Sweetie."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Anyway. I think CIA was a good choice. It'll explain all the traveling, and why you can't talk much about what you do."

Dean looked hard at Sam and then heaved his shoulders into a shrug. "I don't know, man."

"Don't know what?"

Dean looked down, then seemed to come to a difficult decision.

"Sam – haven't you told her anything about you?"

Now Sam was looking down.

"Why would I do that?" he asked.

"Uh, how about because you're engaged to the girl? I mean, it's not my scene, but aren't these sort of relationships supposed to be built on honesty and trust?"

Sam snorted, trying to diffuse the mood of the of the conversation. "Dude, you sound like a freakin' Hallmark card."

Dean didn't take the bait.

"What do you tell her about Mom?"

"The truth – that she died in a fire when I was a baby."

Dean rolled his eyes. "And all your scars?"

"The truth," Sam insisted again, although a little less forcefully this time. "That I'm a klutz."

At that Dean shot him a truly incredulous look. "Sam! You really think she believes that? First of all, wouldn't she have noticed by now that you're not a klutz – kind of the opposite, actually? And second, if she's pre-med, I'm betting she knows better than to believe you'd have that many scars from being accident prone."

"What are you saying?"

"That she probably already thinks you were abused as a child or something, Dude. What do you tell her about Dad?"

Shit. He should have seen that coming. Dean wasn't going to like this.

"What do you mean, 'About Dad?'" Sam hedged.

"I mean, what did you tell Jess about what he does, why y'all never talk?"

Sigh. "I uh. Well."

Sigh.

"OK, before I say this, let me remind you that Dad kicked me out. I had good reason to be mad. Still do, in fact."

"Sam … " Dean growled.

"I told her that he's an alcoholic."

Dean just stared at Sam for a moment before shaking his head and spinning toward the other direction.

"Dean," Sam started, looking up. He hated that it came out as a whine, but he was kind of afraid his brother was going to walk out.

Dean spun back around.

"Sam," he said, matching Sam's tone.

Sam sighed. He also hated when Dean turned his whining back on him. It was such an infernally big brother thing to do.

"What was I supposed to say?" he asked. "I had to give some explanation for him not being there on move-in day or parents' weekend. Trust me – I stood out. People noticed."

"OK, fine Sam. You wanna' play that game? Tell me honestly: Would you have really wanted him at parents' day? Could you really imagine introducing Dad to your roommate's parents?"

Sam sighed and looked away again.

"That's what I thought," Dean said. "Don't act like this was all Dad's fault."

"What?" Sam exclaimed. "How is it my fault that Dad can't be trusted to act like a normal father? I had to run away to go to college, Dean. Don't you hear how ridiculous that sounds? Would it really have made Dad look like a better person if I told the truth instead of the Miller Time story?"

"Your version of the truth?" Dean spat. "No. Probably not."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that your story conveniently leaves out the part where you walked out on your family."

"I had to Dean! Dad said if I was going, I had to leave and not come back. He slammed that door, not me."

"Oh so – what? You would have been home the past three Thanksgivings if he hadn't?"

Sam blinked stupidly at Dean for a second.

"Well … yeah."

Dean seemed to choke on the breath he'd been drawing, presumably for his next retort.

"What?"

"Dean … I didn't mean to leave and not look back. I mean … yeah. Thanksgiving. Christmas. Spring break – well, maybe not spring break. But the occasional weekend. And I figured y'all would be in this area every now and then, too."

Dean was silent for a beat or two. Then, "So – what happened?"

Sam shot him a confused look. "You know what happened. Dad said – "

"Yeah, I know what Dad said," Dean said. "But I didn't say anything like that. And you never called. I never even got a postcard – much less an invitation to that parents' day crap."

"Right – and what number would I have called, Dean? Dad's cell phone? Which Motel Six should I have mailed that post card to?" Sam sighed. "Besides, Dude, that's a two-way street. You weren't beating down my door, either. I … I assumed you agreed with Dad."

This time the silence lasted for more than just a few beats. Sam looked up when Dean cleared his throat. His shoulders were slumped and he looked … sad.

"Naw, man," he said, the hoarse quiet of his voice betraying the casual words. "I … I didn't agree with Dad."

Sam held his gaze for a moment before giving Dean a quick nod and looking back down. It was such a relief to hear Dean say that, but Sam had no idea how to tell him so. He finally settled on a soft, "Good."

After another silence, Dean cleared his throat again.

"So. Um, if you thought I was mad at you … why'd you want me to be your best man?"

Sam looked up at him, blankly.

"'Cause you're my brother," he said, simply. "I mean … I didn't know if you'd want to, but … I don't know. I couldn't imagine getting married without you there."

Now it was Dean's turn to look away. But not before Sam saw the guilt that flashed across his face.

"I'm sorry, Sam," he whispered, still not looking at his brother.

Sam thought about asking Dean why, playing confused to draw a confession out of his usually unapologetic brother. But then he realized he didn't really want to talk about it anymore. Or think about it.

"Yeah," he said, instead. "Me, too."

"But Sam – you can't go on letting Jess think Dad's an abusive alcoholic."

"Why not?" Sam pouted. This was all Dad's fault, after all.

"Because, Dude. How's she going to react when she meets him? She's not going to want to meet him at all."

"So?"

"So? Dude – what's she going to do when he shows up at the wedding?"

Pause.

Then, "He's coming?" Sam's mind was racing, but he couldn't hold on to any one thought. His Dad was coming?

Dean seemed taken aback. Maybe it was that Sam was practically panting.

"That's … OK, isn't it? I mean – I thought that since you wanted me to tell him … I, uh, I thought that implied an invitation."

"Uh," Sam said, trying to take a deep breath. "Yeah. I mean. I just – I just didn't think he'd, you know. Want to come."

Dean looked like he wanted to protest that, but – after the conversation they'd just had – didn't see how he could.

"Well. He does. And so that your girlfriend doesn't kick him out, you've got to set her straight."

"What? Tell her the truth?"

"Well, Sam – I mean, you're marrying her. Don't you think she should know who you are?"

Sam was shaking his head before Dean was halfway through the sentence.

"No way, Dean. Jess knows who I am. I'm a pre-law student at Stanford. That's all. Not a ghost hunter."

"Sam," Dean started, in what he probably hoped was a placating tone. "Whether you like it or not, the family business is part of who you are. What do you tell her about all the weapons you've got stashed around the apartment?"

Sam looked away again, this time guiltily.

"You … don't have weapons stashed around the apartment," Dean guessed, tonelessly.

Sam still wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Sam," he exploded. "How stupid can you be?"

"Dean, normal people don't need weapons stashed around their apartment."

"Sam – when are you going to realize? You're NOT normal."

"Yes I AM!"

Dean growled and turned toward the door.

"Dean?" There was no mistaking his intention this time. Dean was leaving.

He didn't answer. Just walked out. And Sam sat stunned as the door clicked shut.

Sam lowered his head to his hands and sat for a moment, staring blankly at the floor.

'That's that, I guess,' he thought. 'If he wasn't mad at me before, then I guess he is now.'

He tried to ignore the knot that formed in his stomach at that thought. He hadn't spoken to his brother in four years, he told himself. He'd be OK without him for another four.

He just really didn't want to be.

Sam sat like that for a few minutes, trying to get control of his emotions. And then he heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

'Shoot,' he thought. 'What am I going to tell Jessica?'

And then the door opened to reveal, not Jessica, but Dean. Carrying an armful of guns, knives and ammunition.

Sam couldn't think of anything to say. He just gaped.

"Man, all this time," Dean said, sounding as though he were ready to go on one of his tears, "all this time I've been telling myself, 'At least he's safe.' I was pissed that you left and that you never called and that the only time I got to see you was from far enough away that you wouldn't know I was there. But I told myself, 'At least he's safe. If he's not hunting, he's safe.' I assumed that you would take at least minimal precautions to make that true. Dude – protection spells can only do so much!"

Sam opened his mouth and then closed it again. And repeated the movement a few times, trying to process all that and come up with an answer.

Finally, he landed – stupidly – on "I haven't put any protection spells on the apartment."

"Yeah, Doofus. I know. I did."

"You – " Sam said, still confused. Then something clicked. "What do you mean, the only time you get to see me was from far away?"

Dean paused in his weapon distribution, but just for a moment.

"Nothing," he grunted.

"Nuh uh," Sam said. "You're not dodging this. What did you mean? You came here?"

Dean sighed heavily.

"Sam. Yeah. Of course we did. Did you really think we'd just let you wander off on your own? You're a trouble magnet."

"We?" Sam decided to ignore the trouble magnet dig.

"Me and Dad."

"Dad came, too?"

"Yeah," Dean said impatiently. "Dude, why do you think he got so mad? He was worried about you."

"Worried?" Sam repeated, thickly. What was there to be worried about?

"Yeah, worried. How could he protect you out here?"

"Dean," Sam shook his head, trying to clear the confusion. "There's nothing to protect me from. I'm one of thousands of kids here, and not one of them has had any trouble with ghosts."

That wasn't exactly true, but this was not the time.

"If I don't go looking for trouble, then there's no reason to expect any. I mean, statistically, what are the chances that something … supernatural … would happen to me again?"

"Sam," Dean's voice had taken on a quiet, pleading note. Like he hated to break this news to Sam, but need him to believe it. "Come on, man. Think back. I don't know why, but whatever we were hunting always seemed drawn to you. Surely you noticed that."

"No," Sam denied. "No. If anything, it was you. You were the one most likely to get hurt. You've got way more scars than me."

Dean quirked an eyebrow at him, but looked away.

'Oh,' Sam thought. 'Right.'

"It was because of me?" he asked flatly. "You were … always getting hurt because of me? Because you were taking care of me?"

Dean opened his mouth, but Sam could tell it was to argue, so he cut him off.

"It … Never mind," he said. "But … Dean. Nothing's happened here. Not a single poltergeist has shown up in the apartment."

"Oh yeah?" Dean countered. "What about your freshman year? In the dorm?"

Sam was gapping at him again.

"You kn- … How did you know about that?"

"Sam, come on. We would have noticed that article even if it hadn't been about you."

That shut Sam up for a minute.

'Yeah,' he reflected. He should have known Dad and Dean would have picked up on a report of a college freshman inexplicably almost dying in the dorm bathrooms. The police had put it down to hazing, even though the evidence didn't add up. Dad and Dean would have known better. You don't almost drown in a community shower full of people without someone seeing your attacker.

"That was a coincidence," Sam whispered.

"Do you really believe that, Sam?"

"I took care of it," he continued, stubbornly. "And nothing's happened since then."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "That's when we started with the protection spells."

Sam's face fell and his eyes slid closed. He scrubbed his face with his hands.

"That doesn't necessarily mean … " He trailed off. His heart wasn't in the protest.

Dean apparently decided to give him a break.

"No," he said. "Not … necessarily. But still."

Sigh.

"Yeah. Fine. OK. Guns it is, then."

Sigh.

Dean cursed under his breath. Sam kind of hoped he felt a little bad.

"And Jessica?" Dean asked. But his tone said he wished he didn't have to.

Sam turned panicked eyes on him.

"No," he said desperately. "Please Dean, no. I can't do that."

"Sam, why not?" Dean asked. "She seemed – against all reason, if you ask me – to really be into you. If you're going to marry her, you need to be honest with her."

"Dean, you don't understand. She's … Her dad is a judge. He's a member of a country club. Her mom doesn't work at all. She makes these great apple pies – apple pies, Dean! Her older sister? She's a Kindergarten teacher. And you know what they do every Christmas? Pile into the family SUV and go see both sets of grandparents.

"They're so normal, Dean. So normal. She'd never understand. She'd think I was crazy."

"Sam, how long did you say y'all have been together?"

"Two and a half years."

"Two and a half years – and you really think she doesn't know by now that you're not crazy? I'm here. I'll back you up. Hell, it'll probably make more sense to her than that lame CIA story."

"Dean. No," Sam said, his eyes begging. "I just. I can't. I don't … I don't want to."

Dean surveyed him for a second before shrugging and shaking his head.

"Fine. But don't forget I warned you. I want it officially noted. 'Dean warned Sam: Honesty is the best policy.'"

Sam snorted.

"Spoken like the Boy Scout you never were," he said. "Fine. It's noted. Just don't say anything."

"OK. But I am not corroborating your Dad is a drunk story. You'll have to come up with something else. Hey – tell her he's in the CIA, too. Tell her I followed in his footsteps."

"What, a father and son CIA team?" Sam scoffed. Figured, Dean would pick that cover.

"You got a better idea?"

Sam rolled his eyes, which was his way of saying no.

"Fine. Agent Dean and Agent Dad. I'll clear it all up," he said.

"And what about your scars?"

"Dean," Sam was loosing his patience. "OK. Fine. I'll tell her … um … what? What do you want me to tell her?"

'Oh, yeah,' Dean thought. 'She knows he's not a CIA agent.'

Then again …

"Tell her that the CIA biz, it's tough. Hard on the whole family. Tell her sometimes we went with Dad when he went undercover. You know – makes it look more legitimate if you have kids with you. And that sometimes things went badly."

"Dean, come on. That's about as believable as the ghost hunting story."

"Sam, the ghost hunting story is true. I mean, how do we know that doesn't actually happen? Do you know any CIA agents? Then I bet she doesn't either. And again, better idea?"

Sam couldn't come up with any.

"Besides," Dean continued, "that'll come in handy later."

Sam scowled suspiciously.

"How?"

"Well, for one, it'll explain how you know how to handle all these weapons I'm leaving you," Dean said. "And second, it'll explain all these weapons I'm leaving you. You can tell her we're a little worried that some … you know – enemy spy – is after the family and that he might find you."

"Dean, I thought you said it wasn't like James Bond. I don't think real CIA agents have nemesises. Nemesisi. Whatever."

"Whatever Dude." Dean brushed him off. "And third, it'll be a good excuse when you come on weekend hunting trips with us. We'll just tell Jess we need a little back up. Undercover, like."

"What? Who said anything about hunting trips?"

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Come on, man. You know you want to."

"No I don't."

"Well, if I'm going to come to dinner parties and eat salads, then you owe me. We have to do something I like every now and then, and I like hunting."

Sam held his gaze for a minute, then gave an exasperated sigh and looked away.

"We'll see," he said. And Dean pumped his fist in the air triumphantly. "I said, we'll see. Emphasis on the see. Not we will. And we definitely won't during finals. Or if I have a paper due. Or – "

"Yeah, yeah, I get your point Sammy. I won't keep you out so late that your grades suffer."

Dean paused and the brothers looked each other square in the eye for the first time all night. For the first time in what seemed like a century.

"It's good to have you back, man," Dean said.

And Sam couldn't help but smile in return.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

The next morning, Dean awoke to the sound of muffled voices coming from the bedroom. He stretched, wincing. Sam's couch was a piece of crap.

"And that's why y'all never talk?" Jessica was saying. "Because you didn't want to be a spy, too?"

Dean wondered, briefly, if he should make an excuse to get up and quit eavesdropping. But, 'Nah,' he told himself. 'It's my God-given right as a big brother.'

"Yeah … basically," he heard Sam answer. "Well, Dad anyway. Dean – I think things just got confused with Dean."

"But why were they so adamant that you should join the CIA?"

"I don't know," Sam said, contemplatively. "It's … it's all they know. And, you know – it's kind of a noble profession. They make a real difference. And they couldn't understand why I wouldn't want to make a difference, too."

"You can make a difference as a lawyer," Jess said. She seemed to be trying to reassure Sam.

"Yeah. I know." But it didn't sound like he did.

Jess apparently picked up on that, too. "Sam." Her voice was cajoling.

"No. Really," Sam sighed. "I know. It's just … " He trailed off.

"Just?"

Sigh.

"Jess. I … I never told you, but. That fire? That killed my mom? It … wasn't an accident."

"It wasn't?" Jessica whispered the words, almost too low for Dean to hear.

"It, um. It was a bomb. And my Dad – he always wanted revenge after that. To get the … guy … who set it. Dean, too."

"But not you?"

"No – I mean, yeah. Or. I did. I do. But … It's not all I want. I mean. I was a baby when she died. I never knew her. So maybe I just never felt it like they did."

"That's why you didn't want to be a CIA agent, too?"

Sam sighed heavily.

"I don't know. I guess that was part of it. There were a lot of reasons.

"Another part was the lifestyle. You know? I just wanted … more. More than just Dean and Dad. I loved them, but I wanted friends that lasted more than a few months. And a girlfriend."

That last was said with a significant sort of emphasis on the 'girl' part of the word, and Dean heard Jess chuckle softly. But Sam wasn't done talking.

"And besides," he said, sobering again. "I wasn't as good at it as they were."

Dean frowned. 'What?' he thought.

"Not as good at it?" Jess repeated, and Dean silently thanked her.

"I was … too slow. Too sloppy. Never quite at the right place at the right time. And … " he trailed off.

"And?" Jessica was whispering again.

"And I was … afraid … they'd get hurt. They were always getting hurt."

'Shit,' Dean whispered to himself. He thought back to what Sam had said the night before, about his scars. Dean had asked what he told Jess about them and Sam had said, 'The truth.' Dean had barreled on about how Jess couldn't possibly believe that was the truth.

He'd somehow missed the fact that Sam really thought it was. He thought he was always running into trouble because he wasn't a good hunter.

'Shit,' Dean said again. He wondered if Sam had believed him at all last night, when he told him he attracted supernatural trouble.

"But Sam," Jessica was saying. "You were a kid. Of course you weren't going to be very good at it … "

Dean grunted at that. 'Speak for yourself lady. I've been good at it for years.' But he applauded her effort, anyway.

"… Besides, you never should have been there in the first place."

'What?' Dean thought. 'I totally take back my applause.'

"Why would your dad get y'all mixed up in something so dangerous?"

'Uh, how about because that's life, bitch? You think he should have coddled us? Told us not to be afraid of the dark? That's crap.'

Sam's answer was a little more rational.

"Well," he sighed. "I don't think he knew what else to do, you know? Dean and I were little – really little – when our Mom died. So … Dad had to find a way to take care of us if we were going to stay with him – uh, in England. I guess he thought part of that was to teach us to take care of ourselves. And, well, since we knew how to take care of ourselves, we might as well help. He was alone out there most of the time – you know, undercover."

"Hmm," Jess said, and Dean sensed that she wasn't convinced.

"I don't know."

See?

"I guess I get the need for revenge, or whatever. But – I still don't think your Dad should have let you and your brother get involved. If he was going to live such a dangerous lifestyle, maybe he shouldn't have kept you with him."

'What? What else was he going to do?' Dean silently fumed. 'Put us up for adoption? What kind of a person are you?'

For all that she seemed OK last night, Dean was liking this Jessica girl less and less.

"But Jess," Sam sounded more forgiving. "The three of us – we're all there is. We're all the family we've got. It's not like there was a spinster aunt he could have watch us while he was out. And … I mean … I didn't always like it. But, you know. He's my dad. I wouldn't have wanted him to drop us off somewhere. And Dean – I can't even …"

He trailed off again.

"No, no – of course not," Jess hurried to say, somewhat mollifying Dean's temper. "I just. I don't know. It doesn't sound like a good way to grow up."

This time Sam's sigh was sad, and all the resentment went out of Dean.

"Yeah," was all he said.

Dean screwed his eyes shut. He kind of wished he'd decided not to eavesdrop, now.

"But," Sam hesitantly continued, "it wasn't all … bad. I mean, there were a lot of secrets and, well, lies. And obviously a lot of violence. But – I never felt more safe than when I was with Dad and Dean. And … I don't know. It was kind of cool when I was little, knowing what Dad did. My best friend in one of my second grades, his dad was a retired pro football player, and he thought he was so cool, and he lorded it over everyone else. But even if I couldn't tell anyone, I knew what my dad did was cooler. You know? Really helped people."

There was a short silence, broken only by the creaking of bed springs. It was an intimate sort of sound that brought back Dean's guilt for a moment.

Then, "So … that scar on your shoulder. It wasn't from falling on a knife, was it?"

'Geez, Sam,' Dean thought. 'Falling on a knife? Is that really the best you could do?'

Dean knew the scar she was talking about. It started on Sam's right collar bone and ran past his shoulder blade to the middle of his back. It had bled a lot. But Dad was … busy … and Dean didn't have his own car yet. So he had to patch Sam up himself. He hadn't done a great job, and it'd made a messy scar. Probably the worst Sam had.

"Uh. No. It's not," Sam said. "Dad was … investigating some weapons dealers … who were holed up in an old abandoned cabin. In Wales. And I was covering the front entrance. You know – to make sure they didn't try to escape. And they did … because, well, that what … weapons dealers … do. Um. And so when I tried to chase one of them down, we got in a fight. And he cut me."

"My God. How old were you?" Jess sounded horrified, which Dean thought was actually a good sign. He was surprised she was buying it at all. Sam, for a Winchester, was a piss poor liar.

"Uh. Maybe … 17?"

'Maybe 14,' Dean amended.

"You're lucky he didn't shoot you," Jess said. Then she seemed to consider for a moment.

"But, Sam – what in the world did he use? It looks like he practically sliced your back open."

'Shit. That's right. She's pre-med,' Dean cursed. 'She'd know that doesn't look like a normal knife wound.'

"Uh … a … big … knife. Like … a machete. 'Cause, you know. They were out in the forest. So they had machetes."

Dean rolled his eyes. It had actually been a Wendigo, not a 'weapons dealer.' And the cabin was in Minnesota, not some Welsh forest.

"Uh huh," Jess said, sounding a little freaked. He could just see her shaking her head. "And that one? I'm betting you didn't actually fall down the stairs, either."

"Uh, actually, that one is from falling down the stairs. Or, well, being pushed. By … terrorists. In this old warehouse Dad was checking out. We thought they had cleared out. But they … uh … hadn't."

'That would be the scar on the back of his left leg' Dean thought. And it was a ghost, not a terrorist. They thought they'd gotten rid of him, but then he popped up in front of Sammy and not so much pushed as threw him down two flights of concrete stairs. That wasn't the only scar Sam had from that day.

"And this one?"

Geez. They could do this all day.

Sammy must have thought so, too.

"Yeah, um, they're all pretty much like that," he said, uncomfortably.

Jess must have picked up on his tone. Hers immediately turned playful and sultry.

"Well … I'm impressed. You know how girls love scars."

Sam and Dean snorted in stereo.

"Right. Because getting thrown down the stairs is sexy," Sam said.

"Mmm. Absolutely. Getting thrown down the stairs to protect the country from terrorists is at the top of my sexy list. It's obvious a girl could count on you to save her from all those nasty English spies."

This time Sam laughed outright.

"You'd better believe it," he told Jess, in what Dean guessed was his best attempt at a Clint Eastwood voice. "No Englishman is getting his hands on you, little lady."

Dean rolled his eyes. Were they really related?

"Uh. But, actually Jess, that brings up something else we need to talk about."

"Mmm?" Jess said, obviously somewhat distracted by … something.

Sam kind of giggled, and Dean guessed what that something was.

"H-hey. Hold on. Stop. Really. We gotta … " The last words were muffled by what Dean assumed were Jess's lips and punctuated by a groan. Now he was really rethinking his eavesdropping decision.

Sam made a few half-hearted "mm" noise in the back of his throat, but Dean could tell he had given up on finishing the conversation. This was going nowhere Dean wanted to follow.

He tried flopping around a little, hoping the couch would creak and remind the love bird they had a guest in the nest. But the giggling was escalating, and he had no such luck.

With a different sort of groan, the drug himself off the couch and into the bathroom for a shower. Hopefully the honeymoon would be over by the time he got out.


	7. Chapter 7

BRRRINNGG.

Dean paused in his perusal of the supermarket's salt selection to dig the phone out of his pocket. He didn't recognize the number.

"Yeah?" he answered.

"Uh … Dean?" the woman on the end stuttered

"Who is this?"

"It's Jessica – Sam's girl–"

"Jess?" Dean interrupted. "What's wrong? Where's Sam?"

"That's why I'm calling. He's … I don't know … "

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

"He was helping a friend of ours, and he was supposed to call but he hasn't and I'm … I'm … worried."

"Helping a friend? Helping a friend with what?"

"A guy we know, Zack. He, uh, he was arrested for murder last weekend. And his sister, Becky, she said he didn't do it, that she was with him at the time. So Sam said, you know, since he's worked with you and your dad before, that he could help. And he went out there to look around and now I can't get him or Becky on the phone. I mean – maybe it's nothing, but … I'm worried."

Dean's mind was racing. Why in the world would Sam get involved with this? Murders weren't their thing. Who knows what he'd gotten mixed up in.

"Have you called the police, Jessica? Are they there?"

"No. I mean – I wasn't sure who to … Zack and Becky were in St. Louis, where they're from, when it happened, so Sam went there. He flew out yesterday. I know he got there OK – I talked to him and Becky last night. He said they were going to go to the crime scene today, but …"

"Right. St. Louis ... Shit."

Dean was in Bisbee, Ariz. St. Louis was a good 1,500 miles away. It would take a solid day of driving to get there, if he was lucky.

He swallowed hard and came to a difficult decision.

"OK, Jessica. Here's what I'm going to do. I'm in Arizona right now, so I'm going to have to get a flight out to St. Louis. While I'm doing that, you keep trying to call Sam. If you get him, call me right away. Or tell him to call me. And round up directions for me to this girl Becky's house. I'll head there as soon as I get in."

"Yeah, OK, I can do that. Should I meet you there?"

Dean thought about that. It'd be helpful to have someone who knew the people they were looking for on hand. But if Sam didn't want Jess to come, he must have had some reason. He decided not to take a chance.

"No. Not yet. I'll call if I think I need you, OK?"

"OK. Uh – what about the police? Should I call and tell them you're coming? Is there a badge number I can give them?"

Huh? Badge – Oh. Right. The whole CIA thing. But … the police? Normally there's no way, but this didn't sound supernatural.

"Jess, what happened? What did Becky tell you about the case? Why did Sam believe it wasn't her brother?"

"Um. OK, let me think. She said … that Zack's fiancée, Emily, was murdered Friday night. That Zack got home and she wasn't breathing and he called an ambulance and … And they arrested him. Said they had his finger prints on the murder weapon and his blood and stuff. And a video tape of him going in. But Becky said it must have been faked somehow because Emily was killed at around 10:30 and Becky was with Zack until after midnight."

Dean frowned. 'Well, yeah,' he thought. 'Of course she would cover for her brother. Shit. What if they were both involved in it and now Becky had Sam?'

"Jess, how well do y'all know these people? I mean – are you sure Zack didn't kill his girlfriend?"

"No, no way. We've known both Becky and Zack for three years. They're good friends. Zack supposed to be one of Sam's groomsmen. I just … I just can't believe … "

Dean bit back a growl of frustration. That's what people always said. Still. Sam must have thought there was something weird about it, right? Surely he wouldn't head out there on his own to look for a flesh-and-bones murderer. Shouldn't have gone out on his own period, but he'd talk to Sam about that later.

Anyway. It all boiled down to not getting the Five-O involved just yet.

"Jess, don't call the police, all right? Not yet. Let me get down there and look around, and I'll decide then whether it would help."

"But … What do you mean? Why wouldn't it help?"

"Uh … You know. Interagency rivalry stuff. They might not let me help. Just … trust me."

"Oh. All right."

"OK, I'm heading to the airport now. Call me if you hear from Sam, OK?"

"Yeah, OK. And Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Just …" she trailed off.

"I know. Don't worry. He'll be fine."

And he meant it.


	8. Chapter 8

Meaning it did not make getting on that plane any easier, however. At the gate, Dean turned around six times, and on the sixth was halfway back to his car before he convinced himself to go back. Luckily by that time the final boarding notice was sounding on the PA system, and he was out of time to rethink it.

Even so, when he felt the plane's wheels leave the ground, Dean was cursing his brother.

'He'd sure as hell better be in imminent danger of losing life or limb,' he thought.

Still, he sure hoped he was there in time to make sure that the danger stopped at the imminent stage.

'Oh God,' he thought as his stomach seemed to try for a flying leap up his throat. He wasn't sure if the nausea was from the flying or the worry. Maybe both. He screwed his eyes shut, gripped the arm rest and spent the next three hours trying not to think too hard about either.

But when he landed, things got worse.

He called Jess first thing, and before he could even get a hello out, she was sobbing his name.

"Dean. Oh God, Dean. I just got off the phone with Becky."

"What? What!" A thousand horrible possibilities flashed through Dean's mind.

"She," sob. "She was attacked Dean. At her parent's house. Just like Zack's fiancée. And she said …"

Another huge sob. Dean was gripping the cell phone so hard that the plastic was flexing beneath his fingertips.

" … She said the man who did it … he looked just like Sam."

Dean stopped short, and the woman exiting the plane behind him bumped into his back. He still didn't move. Of all the things he had been bracing for … well, that hadn't been one of them.

He opened his mouth and closed it a few times and still didn't find the words he was looking for.

"But … that … doesn't make sense. Jess. You know – Sam …"

"I know, I know! He'd never. Ever. It's unimaginable. But Becky … I mean. She doesn't know what to think, what to do. She knows Sam wouldn't have done that, too. But she said it looked just like him."

"Where is she now?"

"At the University Hospital. She's cut up a little, but apparently Sa—whoever it was tripped her parents alarm system, and the police got there before … you know."

"The police? What'd she tell them?"

"I … I don't know. I didn't think to ask."

"It's OK. I'll just go talk to her myself. Call her and explain who I am – tell her I'm on my way."

"Yeah. OK. I'll … I'll tell her."

"All right. I'll call you as soon as I know something."

Dean hit the end button on his phone, but it was another few minutes before he got moving.

'What the hell?' he wondered. This clearly wasn't your garden variety murder mystery. Obviously Sam didn't normally go around cutting up his friends. So unless this Becky needed glasses, something weird must be going on.

'Possession,' Dean thought. 'Gotta be.'

That would explain everything, but it wasn't good news. At all. First there'd be the figuring out what was in him, and then there'd be the getting it out. But worst of all, the evidence would point back to Sam, regardless of whether he was in control of his actions at the time. And Dean wasn't sure, but he figured most law schools didn't send correspondence courses to prisons.

But … wait. Jess had said Becky swore that her brother was with her when his fiancée was being murdered. Possession wouldn't explain that.

So unless Zack really had murdered his girlfriend and Sam's possession was coincidental – and that seemed like a stretch – it must be something else.

A shapeshifter, maybe? That fit, all right.

But then … where was Sam?

That thought got Dean moving again. Within 30 minutes, he was at the hospital, knocking on the door of a private room he had been told belonged to Becky.

"Becky Warren?" he asked to be sure. But unless there were two recent of knife-point torture survivors in St. Louis, there was really no reason. The girl looked bad.

"You're Dean?" she asked, wide-eyed. "Sam's brother?"

"Yeah," was all he could think of to say.

"Oh," was apparently the best she could come up with.

Dean cleared his throat.

"Becky, Jessica told me what you thought you saw, but surely … I mean, you know Sam right? He wouldn't …"

Dean trailed off, but it didn't matter because Becky was already nodding.

"Yeah," she said, her voice breaking a little on the word. "I … I do know. I don't understand, but … it wasn't Sam. It couldn't have been." Here her voice got a little stronger, "Just like it wasn't Zack."

"Right," Dean encouraged. And then, "But … Becky, if it wasn't Sam, then that means … Sam could be in trouble somewhere. I've got to find him. When was the last time you saw him … before, I mean."

She didn't have to ask before what. She just sniffed a little and nodded.

"Um. He … he left early this morning to go look around outside Emily's apartment. He said that since Zack wasn't the killer, then the real killer might have left a trail … after."

"And you haven't talked to him since then?"

Becky shook her head.

"How early are we talking?"

"About … 5:30, I think."

Shit. It was after 9 p.m., now. Sixteen hours that Sam could have been in trouble.

"OK, here's what I need you to do. I need you to tell me everything you told Sam about Zack's case and anything you can remember that he told you. And then I need you to draw me a map to that apartment. Fill in as much detail around the area as you can. And then … I need to borrow your car."


	9. Chapter 9

OK. Just a few more strands and …

There.

Free.

Sam resisted the urge to slump to the ground as soon the ropes gave. He'd been having some trouble staying awake for awhile now – might have something to do with whatever hole that blood he could feel trickling down the back of his neck was coming from. But the rope wound around his neck made a nap seem like a poor idea.

And then there was the serial killer running around with his face. That was another good reason not to fall asleep.

'Aw man,' he thought. 'Dean and Dad are going to be so pissed when they find out about this. First I tell them to take their hunts and shove it. Then I go on one by myself. And now? I'll be lucky if I don't have to call them for bail before this is over.'

He managed to get the other ropes untied and groaned as he got to his feet. Before the spots had finished clearing from his vision, he was off. He could only think of one place in St. Louis where his face would get the shapeshifter anywhere, and it had taken endless hours to saw through those ropes.

He was terrified that he was already too late.

Sam made short work of finding the nearest manhole cover and climbing out, but he emerged into an unfamiliar neighborhood. He'd been unconscious for a little while after running into the shapeshifter, and he had no idea how far the thing's lair might have been from where Sam started.

A cab sounded like a good idea, but the thing had taken Sam's cell phone and wallet along with his jacket. So instead, Sam picked a direction and took off at a run. It took a couple of tries, but eventually he started to recognize things. A couple of hours later, he was standing in front of Becky's door.

Which was cordoned off with police tape.

Sam felt like someone had hit him in the stomach. "Oh God," he said. "No, no, no."

This could not be happening. This … this didn't belong here. Becky … Becky was part of normal. This didn't happen in normal. This happened when he was with Dean and Dad. He'd quit that. He'd been done with that.

But this said otherwise.

Dean was right. Statistics be damned, these things just kept happening. Sam hadn't known what to expect when he left Palo Alto for St. Louis, but he'd known something hadn't felt right – besides the fact that his friend was in jail for murder. Something about it had just sounded … familiar.

He should have known then that it would end badly.

Sam wasn't so narcissistic as to believe he was the reason Zack's fiancée had been killed – he'd been how many hundreds of miles away at the time? But there was no question that he'd made the situation so much worse. He'd walked right into the shapeshifter's hands and put Becky in danger.

And now look. It didn't feel like a coincidence.

He should have known better than to think he could help.

Sam swallowed the bile rising in the back of his throat, squared his shoulders and headed for Becky's house. He had to see it. Face up to what he'd done.

Still, his hand trembled as he reached for the door knob.

It was every bit as horrible as he imagined. Smears of blood broke up what had been pristine white. He followed the trail down the hall to what he knew was Bec's room, trying not to hyperventilate. It was even worse. A chair surrounded by the remnants of rope and macabre red splatters told the whole horrible story.

Sam allowed himself to slide down the doorjamb, taking the scene in. His gaze landed on a collection of picture frames Becky kept on the nightstand. Front and center was a shot of Becky, Zack, Jess and Sam.

'Jess,' he remembered. He was going to have to call her. He was going to have to tell her ... He was going to have to tell her.

He almost lost the battle against the nausea at that thought.

He did lose the battle against the tears.

He dropped his head into his hands and let them flow for a minute, before sniffing and whipping his face.

'I can't do this here,' he thought. 'I can't do this now. I have to find the shapeshifter before … before this can get any worse.'

But first he had to call Jessica.

He rose shakily to his feet and made his way carefully back out of the house. There was no point in wiping away his fingerprints, he knew – they would already be everywhere from the first day of his stay … not to mention the shapeshifter's visit. He was careful to stay in the shadows once outside, however. The police had a tape of Zack at Emily's apartment. Someone might have seen Sam, as well. And he couldn't afford to be held up by the police right now.

Sam retraced his steps out of the residential neighborhood and stopped at the first pay phone he saw. It took a few deep breaths before he could punch in the number to the apartment.

When asked if she would accept a collect call from a Sam, Jess gasped.

"Sam! Yes, yes!" And when the operator connected the call, " Sam! Oh thank God! Are you OK? Where are you? I've been frantic."

Sam's breath hitched at the sound of relief in her voice. He hadn't thought about how long it had been since he had talked to Jess. Of course she had been worried. He'd promised to keep her up to date on what was going on.

"Jess, I'm … I'm fine. I'm sorry. It … I … Oh God, Jess," his voice broke then, sending Jessica over the edge.

"Sam?" she sobbed. "What's wrong? Are you hurt? Where are you?"

"No, no," he tried to get control of his voice and reassure his fiancée. "No. Jess, I'm fine. Really," he doubted the sniff inserted there helped his case, but he plowed on. "But Jess – it's Becky. She –"

"Sam, it's OK. I already know. She already called. It's OK. She … she knows it wasn't really you. I mean … I don't … but …" Jess was clearly having trouble putting what she knew of the situation into words. She finally settled on repeating, "She knows."

Sam froze. All he could do for a second was blink.

"You … she called? She's not … dead?"

"What? No. No, Sam – why would you …?"

"I … it's a long story. But … I went back to Becky's house and there was police tape and … blood. Lot's of blood. I thought …"

Jess made a distressed but still affirmative noise. "Yeah. She … she's in the hospital, but she's OK. She's going to be OK. Sam, what's going on? Becky, she … she said that the man who attacked her looked," sob, "like you."

"Jess, I swear it wasn't me. You know that, right?"

Jess let out a tear soaked mmmhmm, and Sam went on.

"But Jess, I don't have time to explain right now. I have to go find what did attack Bec."

"Sam!" Jess exclaimed, sounding hysterical. "No! Why would you do that? Just … No! Just let the police do it themselves. I know you want to help, but," and here she broke into sobs again.

"Jess, I … I don't think the police can help this time. I know it doesn't make sense, but you've got to trust me, OK?"

"Sam," she pled.

"Jess …" he reassured.

She sniffed. "What does Dean say?"

Huh?

"Dean? What do you mean?"

Jess got a little more control over her voice. "You," she cleared her throat. "You're not with Dean?"

"Um … no …" he didn't understand. "Why would you …?"

"I called him. I didn't know what else to … He's there. He's there in St. Louis looking for you."

Sam's knees almost gave out in relief.

'Dean's here. Dean's here. Dean's HERE,' his mind chanted. Dean was here and Bec was OK. Everything was going to be OK.

"Sam?" Jess sounded worried again.

"I'm here Jess. That's … that's great news."

"Listen Jess, I'm at a payphone – I … uh, lost my cell. Can you call Dean and tell him to come get me? I'm at," Sam looked around trying to figure out where he was. "Uh … the corner of 32nd and Dunlap. Tell him I'll wait here for him."

More sniffing. "Yeah. Yeah, OK. I can do that."

"OK, thanks, Jess. I'll call you later, OK? I'll call you as soon as this is over." Sam got ready to hang up.

"Wait! Wait Sam!"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful? OK?"

He smiled. "I will. I promise."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

Click.

Sam hung up the phone then looked around for a good place to sit while he waited. He chose some shadows on the more deserted side of the building. He slid down the metal siding into a crouch and dropped his head to his knees, breathing deeply.

'It's OK,' he told himself. 'Bec's OK, Dean's on his way. It's OK.'

Somehow everything was OK after all. Now all they had to do was find the shapeshifter and kill it and everything would be fixed. It would be like none of this ever happened. And with Dean, he could do it. He knew he could.

The minutes drug on, and Sam began to relax more than he should have. When he was surprised by a hand on his shoulder, he came up fighting.

"Whoa, whoa," a familiar voice exclaimed. And Sam started breathing again.

"Dean," he panted. "God man. Why you gotta sneak up like that?"

"Dude, don't 'Dean' me. Why you gotta sleep in convenience store parking lots? Huh?"

But then his voice softened. "You OK?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded, still trying to catch his breath. "Glad to see you, though."

"You and me, both, little brother. What happened?"

"It's a shapeshifter, Dean. He's … I don't know … living in the sewer, I guess. I traced him there, but he got the jump on me."

"A little rusty, huh?"

Sam ignored him. "We've got to go down there and find him, Dean. He attacked my friend Becky looking like me. Who knows what he might do next."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. I know. You're right. We've got to stop him. You got your gun? Silver bullets?"

Sam's face crumpled into a scowl. "Damn it," he said. Then sighed. "No. He must have it. Shit."

Dean took the news in stride, however.

"OK. Well, I've got mine – and let me tell you, it was a bitch to smuggle onto that plane. You just stick close. We'll have to make due."

Sam nodded, relieved that Dean wasn't going to insist he stay behind. They headed for the parking lot, but Sam stopped short. The Impala was nowhere in sight.

Something clicked, and he reran the conversation in his head.

"You flew?" he asked in astonishment. "I thought you were scared to fly?" Sam had learned this juicy little tidbit when Dean had come to visit last month. He had tried to convince Dean to fly so that he could stay longer before he had to be in New Orleans, but the man had absolutely refused.

Dean paused and seemed to consider question. "I got over it," he said carefully, as though testing the answer.

"You got over it?" Sam teased with a grin. "That's sweet, man. Fearlessly facing the terror of flight for your little brother.

Dean kind of relaxed and gave Sam a weak smile. "Heh. Yeah. That's it. Big brother to the rescue."

Sam cocked his head and looked hard at Dean. Something about the statement seemed wrong. But Dean was moving on to a car Sam now recognized as Becky's, so he shook off the feeling and followed. A few minutes later, Sam was directing him back to the area above the shapeshifter's lair.

Dean let Sam lead the way down the manhole cover and into the sewer. He stayed just a few steps behind as Sam carefully crept back to the place he'd been tied up. He stopped when he heard grunting in the distance.

"I think he's down there," he said to Dean. He slowed his pace even more, trying to make as little noise as possible. As they got nearer he inched forward to peer around the corner.

But what he saw didn't make sense.

It wasn't the shapeshifter making the noise. There was someone tied to the same post Sam had been bound to only a few hours ago, obviously doing his best to escape.

And he looked exactly like the man currently standing at Sam's back.

The man tied to the post realized they were there and looked up.

"Sam!" he cried around the gag in his mouth. And suddenly it all came together.

Sam spun around just in time to be pistol-whipped with his brother's gun.


	10. Chapter 10

"Samsamsamsamsamsamsamsamsamsamsamsamsamsamsamsamsamsam…"

Sam woke up to the most annoying sound he could remember ever hearing. It brought back memories of the endless road trip that was his childhood, and chants of "not touching, can't get mad; not touching, can't get mad."

He groaned miserably at the realization that he'd somehow ended up back in the stuffy rear seat of the Impala, crammed between the weapons and the supplies, and carsick from trying to finish the latest Hardy Boys book while driving.

Miraculously, however, at his groan the noise seemed to stop. Experimentally, he groaned again – perhaps it also had the power to banish the nausea and miscellaneous cramps brought on by his constricted position.

No such luck. Still, he'd take what he could get.

"Sam?"

Oh God, no. Was it starting again?

"Sam? You awake?"

'I'm not falling for that one,' he thought.

"Come on, Sam. You gotta wake up, man. He could be back any time."

Wait. What?

Slowly, reality began to shift back into focus. And Sam began to wish he was back in the Impala after all.

"Samsamsamsamsamsamsamsamsam…"

Well, maybe not.

"For the love of all that is holy, shut up," he croaked out, weakly. "What happened to your gag?"

Dean snickered.

"So you are awake," he said, a grin in his voice. "Works every time."

"Works every time you want to drive me to violence, that is," Sam corrected as he finally summoned the strength to open his eyes. He was back where he'd started only a few hours ago: tied to a post in the St. Louis sewer.

How, how, HOW could this be happening to him?

"Yeah, well. Violence isn't such a bad idea," Dean was saying. His voice was coming from somewhere behind Sam, and Sam cautiously attempted to turn around.

Yup. Definitely the real Dean. Unless, for some reason, the real Dean had managed to get the upper hand but decided to leave Sam tied up with the shapeshifter. Unlikely, but – as Sam's road trip memories reminded him – not completely out of character.

Still, he decided to take his chances.

"Where's he at?"

"Who? The sexiest mutant alive? I'm not sure. He left awhile back, but forgot to give me a rundown of his itinerary. He is so grounded when he gets home."

Sam groaned again. He'd forgotten how Dean always kicked into comedic overdrive when things weren't going well.

"How close are you to sawing through your ropes?" he asked, rather than acknowledge the weak jokes.

"Well," Dean said, slightly more seriously. "Before y'all showed up, I figure I was about a quarter of the way through. But Blinky there reinforced them before he left. Now I'm back at square one."

"Blinky?"

"Yeah. His eyes do something weird when he blinks. That's how I finally figured out he wasn't you. Didn't help, though. He's obviously been working out more than you."

"Yeah, I got that. But I never saw the blinking thing. I … had no idea it wasn't you. Man – he totally fooled me."

Sam shook his head in self contempt. How could he have not realized that wasn't his brother?

"Eh, don't beat yourself up too much. I knew there was a shapeshifter walking around looking like you, and I still didn't catch on. Dude, whatever he is, it's more than just looks. He recognized me before I saw him. And he knew everything about you. Enough to act like you and pass all my identity tests."

Sam shivered involuntarily. The idea made his skin crawl. He felt dirty – it was like knowing someone else had used his toothbrush.

"Well," he pushed the thought aside, "any idea what happens next?"

"I'll race you to see who can get out of their ropes fastest," Dean said.

"That's not fair – you have a head start."

"What you want me to stop and wait while you catch up? You wouldn't win, anyway."

"Jerkwad," was the only reply Sam could come up with. But he started working, nonetheless.

They had been at it for about 20 minutes when they heard footsteps approaching. They both froze as Dean's double sauntered into view. His face was expressionless, and his eyes were remote in a way that Dean's never were.

He surveyed them both for a moment before walking toward Dean. Sam strained to see what he was going to do, but the shapeshifter just stood there, smirking down at the real Dean.

"See something you like?" Dean quipped. "Because, you know, I could recommend a few good mirrors – they'd do the job just as well, but require less care and feeding."

The shapeshifter responded by launching a sharp kick at Dean's torso. While Dean was hunched over panting, the mutant pulled out a pair of handcuffs and bent forward to attach them.

Sam screwed his eyes shut. That was going to make things a lot harder.

By the time he opened them again, the shapeshifter had Dean's gag back in place and was making his way toward Sam. Sam braced for a kick, but it never came.

Confused, he looked up at the Dean-look-alike towering over him. The look of utter loathing on the familiar face was disturbing at a basic level. How had he ever mistaken this monster for his brother, he asked himself again.

Apparently Sam's attention was all the thing had been waiting for. The kick was swift and debilitating. But the attack didn't stop there. When Sam lurched forward, instinctively attempting to protect his stomach, the shapeshifter grabbed a fistful of Sam's hair and rammed his head back into the post.

"How many times have I tried to convince you to cut that hair?" he asked in Dean's voice. "You should listen to me more often, little brother."

He punctuated the statement with another slam of Sam's head. It was all Sam could do to hold back a groan. He shut his eyes, trying to make the stars disappear. But when he opened them again, the stars had been replaced by an enormous knife.

He could hear Dean behind him, yelling indecipherable threats around his gag.

"You're going to regret that," the shapeshifter told Sam. "You're going to wish you had appreciated me more."


	11. Chapter 11

Dean jerked the chain of the handcuffs back and forth across the post, hoping against all reason that if he couldn't saw through his bonds, he might be able to saw through the post.

He had to get loose.

The shapeshifter formerly known as Dean had produced another pair of cuffs for Sam. But instead of using them to reinforce the ropes, he'd untied the rope around Sam's wrists and cuffed them in front of him, leaving the ropes around his torso to prevent escape.

Then the thing wearing Dean's face wrapped a rope around Dean's brother's neck.

The shapeshifter took its time securing the knot, then jerked on the long tail he'd left like a leash at the end. It drew a strangled gasp from Sam that had Dean's blood boiling.

"OK," the shapeshifter said in Dean's most reasonable tone. "I'm going to cut you loose. But I've got a pretty good grip on the rope around your neck, so I think we can agree that it'd be pointless for you to try and run. Still. I know what a very smart boy you are, Sammy. And you may be thinking that it'd be worth taking a chance. So let me just remind you that you're not alone down here. And even if you were to get away without strangling yourself, you know who you'd be leaving behind.

"Do we have an understanding?"

Sam gave a careful nod of confirmation, but Dean knew it was bull. Sam knew better than to pass up a chance at escape. He'd have to leave Dean behind, but they both knew Dean stood a better chance of surviving with Sam out there than tied up in here. Leave no man behind was a pretty ideal, but one man left behind was better than two.

Sure enough, the second the ropes fell away, Sam was off. His legs were considerably longer than Dean's double's – 'finally, a reason to be thankful I'm the short one' – but the mutant hadn't been lying about his grip on the rope.

Sam barreled away at full speed, presumably hoping to build up enough steam to rip the rope out of his captor's hands. That probably made it hurt that much more when the shapeshifter held on.

Sam was on his back in seconds, and in even less time the shapeshifter was on top of him.

Dean strained against his bonds, frantically searching for some way to help his brother. But there was nothing. The shapeshifter landed two solid punches to Sam's face before Sam was even able to get his hands up. And once he did get them up, they were of little use to him cuffed together.

Still, the shapeshifter couldn't fight and hold onto the rope at the same time.

The next punch Sam blocked, and with a heave he threw the shapeshifter off of him. But the blows had obviously done their job; Sam was shaky and slower than he should have been getting to his feet. Just as he was starting to move in the direction of the entrance, the shapeshifter slammed a foot down on the cord trailing behind him, and Sam went down again.

This time, however, the shapeshifter didn't bother tackling Sam. Instead, he tossed his end of the rope up and over one of the network of pipes in the ceiling and started pulling. Sam's hands flew to his neck, trying to relieve the pressure as he slid backward, feet scrabbling against the slimy concrete floor for purchase. It wasn't long before he thought to reach up and grab the rope above his head so that his arms – and not his neck – took the brunt of the force. But there was nothing he could do to stop the backward motion. Within moments, he was standing on tiptoe, face to face with the shapeshifter.

"Typical," it said with Dean's disgusted sneer. "Ungrateful little shit."

And it launched a vicious backhand at Sam, leaving him teetering and gasping.

"You'd leave the brother who spent his life looking out for you behind without a single thought." He shook his head.

"Hands down," he commanded.

Sam didn't obey immediately, and the shapeshifter's foot shot out and swept Sam's out from under him. He let Sam scramble for a moment before easing up on the rope so that Sam could regain his balance. Then he looked Sam in the eye and slowly repeated himself."

"Hands. Down."

Sam let go of the rope above his head and held out his wrists. While the mutant tied his end of the rope around the cuffs' chain, Sam glanced back at Dean, apology written all over his bruised face. Dean didn't know if it was for his failure to escape or for trying to in the first place.

He shook his head, hoping to indicate that neither was needed.

The shapeshifter noticed the exchange and evidently didn't like it. He grabbed a fistful of Sam's hair and wrenched the boy's head back around. The other hand came up and grasped Sam's chin, forcing him to meet the shapeshifter's eyes.

"Don't," it hissed, "look at him."

It held the glare for a moment, then stepped back to survey its handiwork. Sam's arms were now suspended in front of him, with his elbows at about ear level. He was left standing painfully straight, balancing all his weight on the balls of his feet. Raising his arms eased the pull on his neck, but left him even more vulnerable to attack.

The shapeshifter smiled, obviously pleased.

"I don't usually play this game with men," it said. "It's something about a woman's scream. The begging. The fear in their eyes." The shapeshifter's eyes drifted closed, and its nostrils flared. Dean wanted to turn away.

Then it opened its eyes and leveled Dean's gaze, Dean's eyes, Dean's sinister smile, at Dean's little brother.

"But, then, I've never had the pleasure of an audience before," it said. "I think we'll still have a good time. And what big brother doesn't want to show his sibling a good time?"

The shapeshifter began to circle Sam, and Dean could see his brother tense as it moved out of sight. That was probably all that kept Sam from losing his feet again when the blow came from behind – a sharp lash at Sam's left ear.

Dean hurled curses around the gag, but the thing didn't even spare him a glance until it was back in front of Sam.

Then it looked over and held Dean's gaze while talking to his brother.

"You know, he's sure got issues with you," it said. "You got to go to college. He had to stay home."

His eyes slid back to Sam.

"I mean, I had to stay home."

It moved a short distance away to a duffle bag stashed in a corner.

"You don't think I had dreams of my own?" it asked as it unpacked more rope.

"But Dad needed me." A bundle of chain.

"So. You got friends." Knives.

"You got a life." Some kind of metal hook.

"Not to mention, Jessica."

A pack of cigarettes and a lighter. A few strips of already-bloodied cloth. Dean's gun.

"And I get an endless parade of motels and monsters."

It tossed away the empty bag and surveyed the contents for a moment before turning back to Sam. It cocked Dean's head in thought.

"No wonder I hate you so much."

Dean did his best to make his disavowal of that statement known – he was so loud that he almost didn't hear Sam's reply.

"You don't know Dean," he said, his voice roughened by the day's abuse. "He doesn't hate me for that. Dean has exactly the life he wants."

Dean would have been relieved, if it hadn't been for the slight hint of defensive little brother in the words. The undertone told him that the accusation had hit home somewhere, though Sam was trying to hide it.

The shapeshifter may have heard it, too. He glanced over Sam's shoulder at Dean and smirked for a moment before turning back to the tools. His hands brushed over all the choices before landing on the hook.

"I think you're the one who doesn't know your brother, Sammy," he said as he made his way back. "For instance, remember last month when I was leaving and you and Jessica stood in the door of your apartment waving goodbye?"

He slipped the tip of the hook into Sam's collar and pulled down, splitting the fabric of the T-shirt down the middle and leaving a thin trail of blood underneath.

"Want to know what I was really thinking when I smiled and drove away?"

He jerked the hook back up, stopping just as the point pressed into the underside of Sam's chin. Dean could just make out the drops of red that welled up beneath it. He could see Sam's jaw clench as he bit back his reaction to the pain.

Dean's jaw clenched as well, but he wasn't sure if it was the sight of his brother's blood, or his fear of what the shapeshifter was about to say.

"I was thinking what a pathetic idiot you are for believing you and Jessica have a snowball's chance in hell of ever working out."

The mutant punctuated the statement by pulling back and swinging the hook into Sam's face, missing his eye by only a fraction of an inch. But Dean suspected it was the words, as much as the blow, that sent Sam reeling. They had the same effect on Dean – their cruelty left Dean gasping for breath.

And the worst part was that he recognized them. The sentiment had crossed his mind more than once.

But he would never have expressed it to Sam, because he didn't mean it. The shapeshifter's words were true, but they weren't the truth. Dean had thought the words, but he didn't believe them. Refused to believe them. Would do anything in his power to make them false.

But Dean could yell himself hoarse without making that point, and the shapeshifter was still speaking with his voice.

"I've told you before and I'll say it again," it said. "You're a freak. And no matter how many stories you feed her about your dad the CIA agent, at some point Jessica is going to figure that out. And a girl like that? What's she going to want with a freak like you?"

Now he had the knife. He laid the edge horizontal against Sam's chest. Dean could see Sam try and cringe away, but there was no where to go – any further, and he'd be hanging himself.

The shapeshifter slowly dragged the blade down across Sam's belly, like a long, thick razor – but with more force than you'd use to shave. Dean saw a layer of skin replaced with blood.

Sam threw back his head, as much as he could, and hissed. But he held it together.

"You're lying," he croaked. But it sounded more like a hope than an accusation. The shapeshifter just looked up at him and tossed him Dean's crooked smile before getting back to work.

"And you know what else?" He sliced through the sleeves of the T-shirt and it fell to the ground.

"I'm glad."

He repeated the shaving motion up the underside of Sam's right arm.

"I'm glad it's not going to work out."

Then up his left.

"Because you know why?"

And for this he stopped to look Sam in the eye.

"Because I don't want you to be happy without me."

If Dean were ever going to bring down that post, it would have been right then. He jerked so hard against the cuffs and the rope that he thought for a second he had pulled his shoulder out of socket.

He didn't pull out the post or his shoulder. But he did finally manage to shrug his gag over his chin.

"Bastard!" he screamed, and his double looked over at him, surprised.

"Get the hell away from my brother, you son of a bitch!"

The shapeshifter just smiled at Dean, but Sam took advantage of its inattention. He swept the things legs out from under it, aimed a kick at its head when it went down and kept kicking.

After a few swings it stopped moving, but Dean knew it wasn't dead. There was only one way to kill a shapeshifter.

Sam's grunts of exertion changed to choking gasps, and Dean shifted his focus away from his double's still body. Sam was working at untying the rope around the handcuff chain, but to do so, he was having to pull on the rope to get some slack and allow him to reach the knot. And that apparently meant going without air for a little while.

In the meantime, however, the shapeshifter was starting to twitch again.

"Sam," Dean warned. "Hurry."

By the time Sam fell to the ground, the shapeshifter was pushing itself up.

"Sam … "

Gasping, Sam stumbled toward the corner where it had left Dean's gun. The shapeshifter scrambled to grab the end of the rope, and Sam fell.

But he was within reach of the gun.

And a split second later, it was over.


	12. Chapter 12

Sam was smiling when Dean walked into the bar, and Dean cringed a little, wondering how long that would last.

Sure enough, when he raised his eyes to the door, the smile fell away. At first his mouth fell open a little, and Dean thought he could make out his name on the lips. Then they pursed back together, and Sam's eyes slid away. Dean saw him gulp.

Dean's shoulders slumped. He hadn't exactly been expecting a hug. But still.

It'd been five weeks since St. Louis, and though he'd called a million times, Dean had only been able to get Sam on the phone twice. Both conversations had been terse and truncated.

The relationship was undeniably strained. And though Dean would have expected to be used to it by now – after all, at least they were talking this time – it left him feeling brittle. He had too much time to think, traveling from job to job alone. The scene in the sewer played on repeat in his head. His skin was continuously crawling.

'I don't want you to be happy without me,' it had said. In his voice, with his mouth.

Expressing his thoughts.

Dean started to turn around. He didn't want to cause a scene at Sammy's bachelor's party. But the view of the door and the knowledge that Sam was at his back and getting further and further away before he even took a step, stopped him.

He squared his shoulders and turned back around. Started off in Sam's direction.

The man talking to Sam finally seemed to realize that he had lost his audience and turned around to see what had distracted him. His expression turned wary on seeing Dean. Like he was expecting trouble. Dean suddenly felt out of place amid all the Abercrombie.

"Sorry, man," Sam's friend said as Dean arrived at the bar. "We've booked the place for the night. Private party."

Dean tried his most winning smile – though it felt a little stiff.

"Yeah, I know," he drawled, he hoped in an easy tone. "I'm the best man. Dean Winchester. Nice to meet you." He stuck out his hand.

The kid's face cleared immediately.

"Oh – Sam's brother. Of course. Should have known, huh?"

"Yeah?" Dean asked doubtfully. He and Sam weren't exactly twins.

The guy laughed. "Yeah, man. It's … I don't know. The walk, maybe. You both walk like you're ready for someone to jump you from behind."

Dean smiled tightly and looked at Sam. He was staring hard at his half-empty glass of beer.

"Yeah … well," Dean gave a fake chuckle. "So. This is the party?"

It was a lot lower key than Dean had expected. Of course, Dean built his expectations off of movies and TV shows – he'd never known anyone actually getting married before.

At Sam's version of a bachelor's party, things were decidedly tamer. Groups of college guys with artfully mussed hair were gathered around pool tables and poker games. Some sort of sport was playing on a big screen in the background, and occasionally cries of 'Yes! Yes! … No!' rang through the bar. There were a dozen short-skirted waitresses in evidence, but no strippers. And Dean didn't see a cake big enough for anything to jump out of, either.

It all looked right up Sammy's alley.

"Nice," he finally concluded.

"Hey. Here's my present," he said, holding up a pristinely wrapped white box. Or formerly pristinely wrapped. Dean tried to surreptitiously cover the gunk he suspected might have come from the banshee he'd killed yesterday. The present had been in the trunk with the weapons.

Sam finally looked up. "More underwear?" he asked dryly. His friend seemed a little confused and evidently decided to let them continue the conversation on their own.

"Naw, man," Dean said, ducking his head in embarrassment. "I went to that Barrel place you said."

Sam cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at Dean.

"Really?" he said. "You went to Crate and Barrel?"

Dean couldn't blame him for the reaction. It had been quite an experience.

"Yeah and," he checked to make sure Sam's friend really was no longer listening, then leaned forward. "Dude – I gotta go back. There was this sales clerk that I'm pretty sure was possessed. I told her I couldn't tell the difference between these two crystal glasses and, man, I swear her eyes turned black."

Sam's eyes narrowed even more.

"Dean, Jess and I didn't register for crystal glasses."

Dean raised his eyebrows at his brother.

"What? You think couples are the only ones with culinary needs? A guy's gotta have something to sip his Chardonnay out of."

Sam snorted a little, though Dean could tell it was against his will. Dean's answering smile was not.

"You think Crate and Barrel's bad," Sam said, "you should try Pottery Barn. That's Jess's favorite." He shivered theatrically. "I tried to tell her she could pick it all out without me, I didn't care. But …" He just shook his head. "At least there wasn't a Tiffany near enough for it to be practical to go."

Now Dean was narrowing his eyes.

"Dude. Who do you know who's going to buy you something from Tiffany?"

Sam shrugged ruefully.

"Jess's got a lot of family with a lot of money. You should see their reunions."

That brought what had been an increasingly comfortable conversation to a halt. Dean couldn't tell what about the statement bothered Sam, but all he could think was that his brother had been going to other families' reunions, but wouldn't talk to his own.

Dean looked away and cleared his throat. Tried to think of a safe change of subject.

"So … Jess ever hear from the medical school?"

"Yeah," Sam said a little too quickly. "Yeah, she's in."

"That's good."

"Yeah."

OK. That didn't get them anywhere. Screw safe.

"How," throat clear. "How's the chest?"

Sam shot him a quick look that he couldn't read. Then shrugged.

"Pretty good," he said. "Doesn't hurt anymore, but the hair's still growing back."

Dean nodded. "Arms?"

Sam's nose wrinkled. He had obviously hoped Dean wouldn't ask.

"Still twinge a little sometimes."

Dean wasn't surprised. The shapeshifter had hit some muscle there.

"But it's not bad," Sam hastened to add.

Dean just nodded again. Then started, "Sam – "

Only to be interrupted by a group of Sam's friends coming over to propose toasts. Sam looked relieved, so Dean backed off to listen.

It was obvious there were a few English majors and future lawyers in the group. But Dean thought their dirty limericks were lacking. He could have done better. Still, he liked them. Unexpectedly. They seemed to genuinely like his brother and wish him well – which was apparently more than Dean could do.

Dean despised that thought.

Once, after a particularly bad fight in the months before Sam had left, Sam had stormed out of the hotel room where they were staying. Dean had considered going after him, but decided he probably could use the time alone. One hotel room was not really enough space for three grown men – and certainly not enough for two grown men and an overgrown teenager.

That left him alone with John, who seemed to take Dean's presence as a declaration of his allegiance. It wasn't, but Dean didn't know how to tell him that. So he wasn't surprised when Dad began bitching to him. Unloading his frustration and anger with someone he thought would understand.

"That brother of yours can be a hard person to love," he'd said.

At the time, Dean had been confused by the statement – and not a little appalled. He loved his father and brother without thought. Love was never hard. Painful, maybe, but never hard.

But then Sam left. And loving became hard.

Dean had meant it when he told Sam he didn't agree with Dad about the whole 'if you're leaving don't come back' thing. He would never have said never come back. But he had been so angry at Sam for leaving. When the door slammed shut with his brother on the other side, Dean had been stunned. And then he'd been mad.

Probably madder than he'd ever been at anything.

Dean had been taught hate from the age of four. But that had always been abstract. He was instructed to hate evil the same way other children were told to love their neighbors as themselves. And where most kids learn sometime before junior high that it's friends, not enemies, who have the real power to hurt you, Dean had never had friends close enough to do damage. There had been thousands of slights from outsiders, but why should he care what they thought? Give it a few weeks and he'd be in a whole new town with a whole new group of people to piss or please as circumstances dictated.

But then Sam left. And Dean learned that it was possible to hate someone who, not only wasn't evil, but who was also someone you loved. And he began to understand what his dad had meant – how you had to remind yourself about the love part and work to make sure the anger didn't overshadow it.

By the time Sam called a couple of months ago, Dean had thought he'd had it down. Thought he'd reached a point where Sam couldn't hurt him any more. A point where Sam was one of the people he wasn't close enough to to hate. It was stupid, but Dean had had four years to convince himself it was true.

But then Sam said he was getting married. And Dean hated the idea. It was irrational and unfair, but it was gut instinct. He hated it. He hated it because it meant an end to all the hopes he hadn't realized he'd had that Sam was coming back. He hated that it meant Sam had found someone to love more than Dean or John. And he hated that it meant there was someone out there with a more legitimate claim to Sam's time and loyalty than Dean or John's.

Dean wasn't stupid, however. For all that he avoided talking about emotions, he recognized his for what they were. He knew he was being possessive and jealous, and he knew those weren't constructive motivations. And he had to acknowledge that whether he liked it or not, this was Sam's choice. If he wanted to have a brother at all, he was going to have to accept it.

He had been doing just that, though the shapeshifter had failed to mention it in his revelation of Dean's true feelings. Still, it did require some effort, which was probably why it also hurt just a little to see all these strangers so effortlessly having fun with Sam. It reminded him that, really, Sam wasn't a hard person to love. If Dean was having a hard time with it, it was his own fault.

The party went on, with the shots flowing freely, the poker games becoming more heated, the pool games becoming more clumsy and the sporting event exchanged for a really amusing porno. (The cries of 'Yes! Yes! … No!' did not go away.) Dean hung back from it all. He was glad he had come, but not sure what to do now that he was there. He could tell Sam was having a good time, and he didn't want to mess that up. But he also thought it might help patch things up for Sam to see him supporting the wedding in this way, so he stayed.

A little after 3 a.m., things started winding down, and Sam's friend – whose name turned out to be James – announced that a few limos were available to make sure everyone got safely home. As everyone filed out, Dean broke off from the group and headed toward his car. He was surprised to hear his name.

"Dean, wait up."

He turned around to see Sam loping toward him. He looked a little buzzed, but not really drunk.

He waited.

"Where you goin'?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged.

"I saw a Super 8 down the highway a little," he said.

Sam frowned at that.

"You don't have to do that," he said. "You can stay at my place. Jess is out, anyway – her bachelorette party involves some sort of sleep over. So … you know. It won't be any … problem."

Dean looked Sam in the face and tried to figure out if that were true or not, if it really wasn't a problem. Regardless, he didn't think it would help mend things if he refused. So he shrugged again.

"If you're sure."

Sam seemed relieved. Maybe he had been telling the truth.

"Good."

He started to turn back to the group, but then stopped and looked torn. Instead, he said, "Uh, give me a second. I'll tell them to go on."

Now Dean was the one frowning.

"What?" he asked, confused.

"I'll ride with you." Sam said it as though stating the obvious.

"Sam. What? No. Go ride in your limo. I can meet you at your apartment."

"Nah, it's OK. They're all drunk. They won't even notice I'm not there."

Dean snorted in disbelief.

"It's your bachelor's party, man. I think they'll notice. Just go. I'll follow you home."

Now Sam snorted.

"And you don't think that would be weird? Some man no one knows following the bachelor's party around in a big black car? People will think Jessica hired a someone to keep an eye on me or something."

"Yeah, but Sam. Come on. It's a limo."

Sam shrugged. "Eh. The Impala beats a limo any day, right?"

And Dean couldn't argue with that. Didn't really want to, anyway.

A few minutes later they were at Sam's apartment, taking turns in the bathroom and getting ready for bed. Sam brought out a pile of sheets and blankets and helped Dean make up the couch.

"All right then," he said, turning toward the bedroom. "You know where everything is, so … you know. Help yourself."

Dean watched him walk away, but decided now was as good a time as any. Hard talks were always easier late a night, right?

"Sam …" he said.

Sam stopped, but didn't turn around.

"Yeah?" he said, cautiously. Something in Dean's voice must have given his intentions away.

"I … um. I think we should talk."

Sam turned around, looking tired.

"Dean – " he began wearily. But Dean interrupted.

"Sam, just … just give me a chance. To apologize. Explain."

Sam sighed, but didn't say anything, so Dean took it as permission to go on.

But having won the chance, Dean realized he wasn't sure what to do with it. He swallowed hard and then started.

"What … what that thing said. About you and Jess and me not thinking it will work? It's not … it's not like that."

Sam stayed silent.

"I mean. I think you should tell her the truth. You know that. And I don't think it will be easy for her to understand, even if you do. But … I know you, Sam. You can make it work. You can make anything work. And he was wrong about me being glad if it didn't work. I'm … I'm still getting used to the idea of a sister-in-law … you know … someone else in the family. It's … hard. After it being just the three of us for so long. But … I want you to be happy. Period. And I'm going to get used to it. I promise."

Dean had been looking at spot on the wall behind Sam for most of that speech, but as he finished, he shifted his gaze back to his brother. Sam was looking down, chewing absently on his bottom lip. Dean waited a moment for him to look back up. When he did, he saw something that looked like relief. He felt it wash over him.

"So … are we … OK?" he asked.

Sam held his eyes for a minute, then began to nod. "Yeah," he said. Then took a deep breath and let it out. "Yeah."


	13. Chapter 13

A few hours later …

Sam suddenly bolted upright in the bed, panting.

He sat still for a moment, trying to catch his breath and the remnant of the dream. It was oddly easy to do. The details weren't slipping away from him like dreams normally did.

There had been a gray house with white trim. A skeletal tree to the side.

And a blond woman in the upstairs window beating on the glass and screaming soundlessly for help.

Sam shook his head in confusion. 'Where had that come from?'

He didn't recognize the house or the woman. Although, there was something about the tree …

He shrugged to himself and wrote it off. But he had trouble getting back to sleep that night.


	14. Chapter 14

The dream persisted for about a week, then inexplicably stopped. Sam wondered about it – what had triggered it, why it kept coming back and, then, why it stopped – but not for long. Jessica slept like a normal person, like a person not trained from age 7 to expect trouble, so she never woke up to question Sam about it. And Sam didn't think it warranted mention. Soon he had forgotten all about it.

But then it happened again.

It wasn't the same dream, but it felt similar, and he was once again sitting up in bed, panting and trying to piece together his memories.

This time, instead of a blonde woman in a gray house, there had been a man in an old car, pulling into a garage late at night. And then … something happened. The car doors locked themselves and the engine ignited. The garage began filling up with fumes and the man began struggling. Sam shuddered. It had been … horrible … to watch. He could smell the exhaust. And the man's gasps – Sam's nightmares were enough to give Sam nightmares.

He sat on the edge of the bed and held his head in his hands. Where, _where_, had that come from? What was going on in Sam's subconscious that would cause him to dream violent deaths for total strangers? He tried to analyze it using what he'd learned in freshman psychology, but he came up dry.

'After all, it hadn't been criminal psychology,' he thought, darkly. He wondered if serial killers dreamed of death and danger in gory cinematic detail. He didn't remember reading that they did, but then it seemed more likely than the idea that this was normal.

Sam cringed, feeling sick to his stomach.

He glanced over at Jessica, momentarily considering waking her. But instead he got up and walked to the bathroom.

Luckily, however, he didn't actually have to pee. If he had, he might have wet himself when a voice behind him croaked, "Dude. Lights," as soon as he flipped said lights on.

Sam spun around, banging into the door in the process. He clamped a hand over his now-bloody nose and exclaimed, "Dean!"

At which a vague lump on the couch mumbled, "Dude. Noise."

Sam's mouth fell open as he tried to put the pieces together. He was sure Dean hadn't been there when he went to bed. Granted, he was feeling a little muzzy from the dream, but he'd remember that. He hadn't seen his brother in more than a month – not since the bachelor's party, actually. And he hadn't talked to him in more than a week. Dean was supposed to be back in a couple more weeks for a tuxedo fitting, but Sam was certain Dean was not supposed to be on his couch right now.

"What are you doing here?" he asked in, it must be admitted, somewhat shrill confusion.

Dean growled in response. "Trying to sleep. Emphasis on trying."

"But how did you get in?"

At that, Dean cracked one eye and shot a Sam a look fill with as much ridicule as most people could hold in two eyes. Sam rolled both of his own.

"You broke into my apartment?"

Dean growled again and rolled over, clearly trying to escape the conversation.

"Dean! What are you doing here?"

The growl was louder this time, but Dean finally sat up, evidently concluding – correctly – that Sam wasn't going to take his … well, hints was too mild a term.

"You said I could come visit anytime," he accused.

"Yeah, but the invitation didn't extend to your lock pick," Sam shot back.

"Well, it was late," Dean ground out. "I didn't want to wake you. Apparently _I'm_ the considerate brother."

Sam would have snorted at that if it hadn't been 4 a.m. Since it was, however, he just grew more incredulous.

"Dean!" he said again. "What if I'd heard you? I could have come out swinging a baseball bat or pointing a gun!"

Dean apparently didn't have a problem snorting at 4 a.m.

"Dude. I haven't even left the couch and your nose is bloody. Can't say I'm feeling the threat."

Not being able to argue with that, Sam gave the conversation up as lost. He turned back to the bathroom, wet a washcloth to clean himself up with and ambled back into the living room. Maybe he could start over.

"So, what _are_ you doing here?" he asked in a lower octave and a less-accusatory tone. He sat down on the coffee table in front of the couch and tried not to look impatient.

"Eh," Dean said through a yawn. "You know. Same old, same old."

He stretched, but there was something stiff about it that caught Sam's attention. And now that he looked, even in the dim light from the bathroom something seemed off about Dean's face, too.

He reached over and turned on a nearby lamp.

"Dean!" he was back to squealing. What was it about Dean that brought that out in him? "What happened? You look like … " He trailed off, unable to come up with an adequate simile. " … Crap," he finally settled on.

It looked like the whole right side of Dean's face was doing its best imitation of a Monet painting – all blues and greens and purples running together. Except for the red pouring out of his split lip.

"You're bleeding on my couch," Sam pointed out.

"Yeah, well. You're one to talk," Dean said with a significant look at Sam's nose. Sam sighed, but offered Dean the blood-stained washcloth. Dean gave him a look of utter disgust and wiped his lip on his shirtsleeve.

"I was a couple of towns over dealing with a spirit. Things got a little … dicey. But nothing I couldn't handle. And I decided to save myself a few bucks by visiting my awesome little brother."

He backed that story up with a crocodile smile that Sam didn't buy for a minute.

"When has flattery ever gotten you anywhere?" he asked.

The smile morphed into a smirk. "What? You're gonna' throw me out?" Dean replied.

"If I thought it would work," Sam returned. "Just … clean up the blood in the morning."

At that, he got up and made to return to bed.

"Hey," Dean called out. "Wait."

Sam turned around.

"You OK? You look a little … sick."

Sam grimaced, remembering why he was up to begin with. He suddenly wasn't so eager to go back to bed. But he wasn't about to tell Dean he couldn't sleep because of bad dreams. He'd stopped doing that more than a decade ago.

Instead he converted the grimace into a scoff.

"Yeah, well, your face is nauseating."

He must have pulled it off, because Dean suddenly grinned manically at him.

"Yeah, well, you look somebody threw up on your face."

Sam groaned. It was an old game, started when Sam was too young to keep up with Dean in the cut down department. During an argument, Dean had thrown out the insult: "You look like somebody threw up on your face." And Sam had predictably floundered. Unable to come up with a suitable retort, he had finally stammered out, "Yeah … well … you look like … somebody … threw up on _your_ face."

Which immediately ended the argument, since Dean couldn't stop laughing hysterically at his brother's ineptness. Sam had pouted for a few minutes, but soon joined in and it became an inside joke. After that, from time to time, one of them would casually accuse, "You look like somebody threw up on your face," which would launch the war. They could go back and forth for stretches of 30 minutes or more. It drove their dad crazy. He couldn't understand what was so funny.

"Yeah, well, you look like somebody threw _up_ on your face."

"Oh yeah? Well, you look like somebody _threw_ up on your face."

"Ha. Well. You look like _some_body threw up on your face."

It was one of those things that seem funny when you're 12 and you and your brother have been in a car for 11 hours. But Sam was 22 now. And … even though he'd meant it when he'd told Dean they were OK, he wasn't quite ready to joke like old times.

He rolled his eyes to cover his unsteadiness. "Dude. Grow up," he said. And started to turn away.

But as he did, he caught just a glimpse of the … was it disappointment that crossed Dean's face? Whatever it was, it made him regret his callousness.

So he stopped in the doorway and turned back.

"Hey Dean?" he said in a hesitant voice.

"Yeah?" Dean sounded tired.

"You _look_ like somebody threw up on your face."

And for some reason, when he crawled back into bed, Sam didn't have any trouble falling back into a dreamless sleep.

OOO

When he woke up the next morning, it was to the sound of Dean and Jess laughing in the living room. Dean seemed to be regaling Sam's bride-to-be with stories from their childhood. Sam prepared for the worst as he rolled out of bed.

"Oh, that's too cute," Jessica was saying. "His name was Drew?"

"Yeah, and he lived in this old camouflage hunting cap of Dad's. Anything that went wrong, Sam blamed it on Drew."

"Hey!" Sam protested, joining them. "You shouldn't make fun. Drew took the blame for a lot of things that might have otherwise been traced back to you. And besides, he didn't live _in_ the cap. It was his cap. That's what he wore."

"Aw, Sweetie," Jess said, smiling up at him. "Drew sounds like a great guy."

She was obviously fighting to hold back her laughter.

"Eh," Sam shrugged, trying to affect indifference. "I knew he wasn't real. But he sure was convenient. Dad didn't read much Dr. Spock. He didn't know it was normal for kids to have imaginary friends. He thought I had mental problems for awhile. Split personality or something. I caught on to that pretty quickly and realized I could use it. It took him awhile to figure out my strategy."

Actually, John had believed the hunting cap to be possessed in some way. He hadn't figured out Sam's game until an exorcism failed to end the problem.

"Well, regardless," Jessica said with a straight face, "excellent taste in hats."

She held up a photo Sam hadn't realized she'd been holding. It showed him just inches away from the camera, sticking out his tongue and wearing an enormous camouflage hat, complete with ear flaps that went down past his shoulders.

"Dean. You didn't."

"Oh yeah I did."

Jess crowed at the exchange and gasped out, "But this one is my favorite."

Sam took one look at the photo she held out and spun around to face Dean.

"Dude. I am so turning you in as a pedophile."

Dean just gave him a Cheshire cat grin, so Sam turned back to Jessica.

"Give me those," he demanded in his most threatening tone and made a grab. Jess yelped and tried to twist away, but Sam knew all her ticklish spots, so the struggle didn't last for long.

Sam glared down at the snapshot of his 2-year-old self, naked except for a pair of his dad's boots and an enormous smile. He shook his head.

"This is so going into our next fire," he said and began flipping through the rest. "And this one," he said over Dean and Jess's protests. "And this one and this one and this … "

He stopped.

The next shot on the stack was a picture of his parents holding a 4-year-old Dean and what he knew to be an infant version of himself. He had seen the picture before, but it had been a long time.

Maybe that's why he hadn't immediately recognized the house and tree when it showed up in his dream.

It took a few seconds, but Jess and Dean eventually realized Sam wasn't playing anymore and the laughter died down.

"Sweetie?" Jess ventured as she scooted across the carpet to where he was sitting. "You OK?"

She looked down at the photo in his hand. "Your parents, right?" she asked. Sam figured she recognized them from the picture on his nightstand. He nodded absently.

"Y'all make a beautiful family," she said, softly. And Sam realized she had mistaken his confusion for introspection. She thought the sight of his parents made him sad.

Sam glanced up at Dean and saw he had not made the same mistake. He was frowning at Sam with an alert look that Sam recognized from hunts. When he caught Sam's eye, he raised his eyebrows in silent question.

Sam just shook his head and looked back down. "Yeah," he said in response to Jess's statement.

"Hey Dean, this is our old house, right? In Kansas?" he held up the photo so that Dean could see.

Still frowning, Dean nodded. "Yeah. Why?"

"Uh," he started, wondering what to say. "Nothing. It's just … weird. I dreamed about it a few times a few weeks ago."

Dean's face cleared.

"Oh. Huh. Yeah, that is weird. I wouldn't think you'd have remembered it."

"Yeah," Sam answered distractedly, and went back to his study of the photo.

That sent Dean back to frowning.

"What were you doing?" he asked. Sam looked up, confused by the question. "In the dream. What were you doing in the dream?"

Now Sam frowned. "I wasn't in the dream."

He didn't volunteer any more information, which apparently didn't satisfy Dean's curiosity.

"Sam?" Dean asked. Sam blinked up at him. "Who was in the dream?" he asked slowly, as if speaking to a small child with ADD.

Sam glowered at him, but answered.

"I didn't know her. It was this blonde woman – "

"Hey!" Dean interrupted in his most lascivious tone. It earned him a glower from both Sam and Jessica.

"Dude. Mind. Gutter," Sam said. "She was … I don't know. In trouble or something." He hated the way it sounded, so melodramatic and … weird. "But I couldn't tell from what. She was banging on the window, trying to get out I guess? And she was yelling, but I couldn't hear what."

He looked up and saw that Dean was no longer in a joking mood.

"Was it … Mom?" he asked tentatively.

"No. I don't think so," Sam said. "I didn't recognize her. It was … weird. Not like a normal dream."

"Huh," Dean grunted.

"But it was," Jess comforted. "Dreams are always weird. You know what mine are like." She grinned trying to lighten the mood.

Sam smirked at her. "Yeah, but this wasn't a talking cat telling me to be sure and buy more toothpaste."

She planted a kiss on his smirk.

Sam noticed that Dean was still staring thoughtfully at him. But when he saw Sam looking, he shook his head and pushed whatever he was thinking away.

"It's pretty weird," he said, grinning. "But I guess we shouldn't be surprised, right? Look at the source: Your freaky-ass head."

If the kiss hadn't done it, that would have. Sam's attention was pulled firmly away from the photo. He fixed Dean with a withering stare.

"And if my subconscious is permanently scarred, who do you think is to blame for that?"

Dean put on his most innocent smile.

"Nuh uh, man. You can't blame that on me. I was nothing if not a doting big brother."

Sam's eyebrows shot up at that.

"Doting, huh? Not exactly the word I'd have chosen to describe someone who convinced his little brother that he was adopted and that the kid in The Omen was his real older brother."

"Heh," was Dean's only answer. His face clearly communicated his pleasure at the memory.

"Yeah, laugh it up," Sam said. "It was about as funny as the time you convinced me I might be a witch and that to be safe, we needed to try out one of the Salem witch trial tests you'd read about in history. I almost drown."

"Yeah, but you didn't," Dean said, still grinning unrepentantly. "And hey, how many people can say for sure that they're not a witch? I bet you're the only person in this room." He looked questioningly at Jessica, who was trying to smother a smile so that she could shake her head solemnly.

Sam gave a cry of betrayal. "E tu, Jessica?" he said in feigned sorrow.

She gave him an apologetic look, but brightened.

"Hey," she said, "at least I know my fiancé's not a warlock. That's a relief."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're as bad as he is."

But he smiled and looked forward to the rest of the day with his two favorite people.


	15. Chapter 15

Note: I am neither a doctor nor a hustler, so please excuse any glaring idiocy in the bits about pool and medicine.

Chapter 15

The small crowd that had gathered around the pool table broke out in appreciative applause as Dean sank yet another ball. He grinned deviously at his brother, who only rolled his eyes in response.

"Hope you brought your money, Sammy, 'cause you're gonna need it."

"Dude. So far you've only won the coin toss. And since that's more of a statistics thing than a physics thing, it doesn't prove anything."

"Sure it does. You said studying physics would improve my game," Dean said as he lined up his next shot, "but if my game is already perfect," and sank it as well, " then what do I need physics for?" Another wolfish grin.

"As soon as you miss a shot, I'll show you," was Sam's sardonic reply.

But, Dean noted with immense satisfaction, the only solid left on the table was the 8 ball. He called it, pocketed it and turned to Sam.

"No reason to fix what ain't broken," he said. "I think that makes the next round your treat?"

"Nuh uh," Sam groused. "Another game. And I'll break this time."

Dean narrowed his eyes and surveyed his brother. Sam's jaw was jutting out, a sure sign that he wasn't going to back down. Dean grinned to himself. 'And Sam says I'm competitive,' he thought. If there's on thing Sam hated, it was losing.

Dean gave a put-upon sigh designed to infuriate his brother and stepped away from the table. "Fine," he shrugged. "But I think we both know this is only going to end in tears."

"Yours," Sam grunted, and Dean's grin broke loose. Only a thoroughly provoked little brother would let such a lame retort by. Oh how he'd missed that. There were few things more fun than poking at a petulant Sammy.

He watched as Sam gathered the balls and began to re-rack them. Dean swaggered up behind him and said in his most contemplative voice, "That is a superb example of a triangle. Stanford obviously knows its shapes."

He was close enough to hear Sam's teeth grind.

"What kind of triangle would you call that?" he continued. "Equilateral? Isosceles?"

That earned him an actual glare, but Sam stayed quiet.

"Oh. Right. I guess that's geometry. Not physics. You haven't taken geometry?"

This time the glare was more of a warning glance. Still, Sam looked confident when he leaned forward to make his first shot.

Three balls went in and Sam cocked his eyebrows at Dean. 'See?' they challenged.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Dude. I taught you to play. If you had screwed up the break, I'd have had to kick your ass for making me look bad."

That sent Sam back to scowling. But he made his next shot. And the one after that, he sank another three balls into assorted pockets."

Dean practically had to clamp a hand over his forehead to keep his eyebrows from shooting up to his hairline. No way had Sam been able to do that when he left home.

There was still one striped ball left, but Sam went ahead and called the 8 ball. Dean frowned.

"What?" he scoffed. "What about the 11? You've got to get rid of it first."

Sam just smirked and turned to line up his shot, which did not look at all easy. Even so, the 8 ball went into the appointed corner hole – but not before the 11 skittered off down one of the sides.

When he turned back to Dean, the smirk had grown into a full-fledged leer.

"And that, dear brother, is what a college education is good for."

Now Dean was the one frowning. Possibly Sam was right when he called Dean competitive.

"Doesn't matter," he grumbled.

"What?" Sam exclaimed childishly.

"Already told you, Sam. The bet was that you could improve my game. You only proved you could improve yours." Here he turned on a careless smile. "Good job with that, by the way."

Sam glowered.

"Now. I'm ready for my beer."

Sam added an eye roll to the frown, but headed toward the bar anyway. Dean moved to set up the table again.

When he heard the crash a few minutes later, his first instinct was to tease Sam on his lack of grace. 'Maybe you weren't lying, after all, when you told Jess you were clumsy,' he prepared to say.

The words died on his lips, however. Sam was standing stock still in a puddle of beer and broken glass, his hands clutching his head and a grimace of pain on his face.

"Sam?" Dean stopped to watch his brother.

Whose knees promptly gave out.

Dean crossed the room in about three steps, but he wasn't quick enough to keep Sam from landing in a heap on the floor. Dean skidded on his knees to a halt beside his brother, who was still clutching his head.

"Sam? Sam! What's wrong? Talk to me, Sam!"

Sam choked out a cry of, "My head," but Dean had no idea what to do with it. Sam wasn't bleeding, except for from a few cuts from the beer mug remnants beneath him. There was no one close enough to have hit him, and he hadn't heard any gunshots. Dean shook his own head in confusion and panic.

"Someone call an ambulance," he bellowed in the direction of the bar.

He turned back to Sam, intending to move him off the floor. But a cry of pain stopped him.

"Sam?"

Suddenly Sam's eyes flew open, and he stopped moving at all.

Dean stared at his brother in horror. What was going on? Was it a seizure? What should he be doing? This wasn't something Dad had trained them for.

He grabbed the sides of Sam's face and positioned himself in the sight line of Sam's suddenly wild eyes.

"Sam? Sam, come on. What's wrong? Tell me what's going on?"

As far as he could tell, Sam couldn't even hear him, and he certainly made no attempt to answer. In the meantime, he seemed close to hyperventilating. Dean checked his pulse and found it to be racing.

"Where's that ambulance?" he called out desperately, even though he knew it was too soon to expect one.

"Just hold on, Sam, hold on," he tried to soothe – but he figured it sounded less comforting than panicked. "Help is coming."

Just then, however, it ended.

"No!" Sam yelled, bolting upright. Dean grabbed his shoulders to hold him down. Sam shivered beneath his hands.

"Sam! What? What's going on?" How many times had he said that in the past minute and a half?

Sam was looking frantically around the room, confusion written plainly on his face. He seemed disoriented, which did nothing to calm Dean's fears. But he was slowly settling down. When his breathing evened out a little, he said, "Dean? What …" but didn't bother finishing the question.

"Dude," Dean said, still shaky with fright, but trying to hide it. "I know you don't like to lose, but that tantrum was a little dramatic, even for you."

Sam just looked at him, wide-eyed.

"What … happened?"

Dean shook his head. "You tell me."

"I," Sam drew in a shuddering breath then looked down. When he looked back up, he looked more scared than Dean had ever seen him. "I think I'm losing my mind."

OOO

Thirty minutes later, Dean was meeting Jessica at the hospital entrance.

"What happened?" she called out, sprinting across the parking lot, blonde hair flying out behind her. She was wearing what seemed to be pajama bottoms and a hoodie that Dean recognized as belonging to Sam.

"I don't know. I … don't know. We were playing pool and he just … I don't know. Collapsed. He just stopped and grabbed his head and fell down. And then. I don't know. He was hyperventilating and his eyes were everywhere but he didn't see me, wouldn't answer me – "

"Oh God," Jess looked stricken.

"But," Dean hastened to add, "he's awake now. And fine. Fine. It's just …" He wasn't sure how to put the next part. They were back in the waiting room so he put a hand out to stop her. "He said when he … zoned out? He said he had some kind of … hallucination or something."

Jess froze.

"Wha … Hallucination? What do you … I don't understand."

Dean shook his head in frustration. "I don't either. I don't know. The ambulance came, and now the doctors are looking at him. So I … I don't know. I don't know!"

Dean couldn't remember ever feeling so out of control. He'd seen Sam hurt before, in the hospital before. But there was always an obvious cause and an obvious course of action. The ghost threw Sam down the stairs: put pressure on the puncture wound on his thigh and splint the arm. Find something to stop the bleeding where he'd hit his head. That was bad, but …

But. Tonight there had been no explanation and nothing he could do. And Sam's eyes had held more fear than any of the times he'd passed out on a hunt or woken up in a hospital.

Dean suddenly realized that Jess was no longer standing in front of him. He looked around and found her sitting in a nearby chair looking completely terrified, her hand over her mouth as if trying to hold in sobs. He suddenly felt guilty for letting his own panic show.

"Hey," he soothed, sitting down beside her. "It'll be all right. Like I said – he was awake and fine by the time the ambulance got there. I mean … it was … weird. But he's fine."

She turned toward him with wide, tear-filled eyes.

"Dean," she said in a jagged whisper, "you don't … That, what you said …" She swallowed hard. "I mean, what happened – it sounds like symptoms of a brain tumor."

The word hit him like a punch in the stomach, and the sounds of the hospital were suddenly drowned out by the white noise between his ears.

"No," he denied, giving his head a small shake that grew into a defiant wag. "No. No, you don't know. You're not a doctor. You haven't even started med school yet."

The tears had spilled over now. "I know," Jess said, brokenly. "But … I have studied. And I … I just …"

She shook her head and didn't go on.

Speechless, Dean leaned back in his chair and stared into space. The words hallucination and brain tumor echoed through his mind, providing a soundtrack to images of Sam clutching his head and falling down. After a minute he felt two arms snake around his waist. He looked down to see Jess curled into a tiny ball at his side, shoulders shaking. It didn't take long before he started to feel wet spots on his shirt where her face was buried. He raised his own trembling arm to pat her on the back.

They were still sitting like that when a doctor called out, "Dean Winchester?"

Dean jumped up, almost spilling Jess in the process. She quickly caught up, though, and began wiping her eyes and nose on Sam's sweatshirt.

"Mr. Winchester?" the doctor asked.

"Uh. Yeah," Dean said. "Sam's brother. And this is his fiancée, Jessica."

The doctor nodded politely, but didn't take much time to look up from the clipboard he was studying. "Well, if you'll come with me, I'll show you to your brother. He's being moved into a room right now." He started walking.

"What's wrong with him?" Dean asked around the lump in his throat.

"Well," the doctor began thoughtfully, "so far, nothing that we can find. We've got a lot of tests in the works, and we want to keep him here for observation while we wait for the results. Right now, though, he's resting comfortably. He was pretty shaken up when he got here, but he's calming down."

Dean nodded, but chewed on his bottom lip and shared a glance with Jessica before finally getting up the courage to ask his next question.

"What …" his voice cracked a little, so he started over. "Uh, what are you testing for?"

The doctor stopped and turned, evidently deciding to give Dean his full attention.

"Well," he said, "like I said, right now nothing seems wrong, so it's hard to know where to look. Based on what he told us, we're testing his blood for hallucinogens –"

"What?" Dean sputtered. "Drugs? Sam doesn't do drugs!"

Jess laid a hand on his arm, probably trying to calm him. But Dean didn't feel calm.

"That's what he said, too," the doctor said. "But it's standard procedure. And besides, he doesn't have to do drugs to have a hallucinogen in his system. He might have inhaled something inadvertently or been given something without his knowledge."

Dean backed down a little. That seemed reasonable – and it was certainly preferable to a brain tumor.

But the doctor wasn't done talking.

"And I've ordered a CAT scan and an MRI to get a look at his brain, as well."

Jess let out a strangled sob.

"Could it … Do you think it might …" Dean had a hard time getting the words out. "Is a brain tumor … a possibility?"

The doctor nodded solemnly. "It's a possibility. I certainly can't rule it out. Though, I'm not sure I expect that to be the answer."

"You don't?" Jess asked hopefully.

"Well, as I said it's too early to rule it out, and I don't want to get your hopes up. But the hallucination Sam described isn't what I'd expect from a brain tumor." He paused. "The pain he mentioned though – that does worry me and is the main reason I ordered the tests. But we'll have to see."

"If it's not a brain tumor and it's not drugs," Jess began, "then what?"

"Well, at that point, I'd say we'd start considering neurological problems. Again, the symptoms seem a little off, but he's the right age for schizophrenia."

Dean felt nauseous just hearing the word. And if the doctor started one more sentence with "well" he might snap.

Still, he pulled himself together enough to ask, "How do you know if it's that?"

"Well, there's no way to test for schizophrenia, but if we're able to rule out physical causes, we'd get a psychiatrist up to examine him."

"But you said he doesn't fit those symptoms, either?" Jess asked.

"Right. That's not my specialty, of course, but you don't normally expect schizophrenics to be aware that they're hallucinating. And the headache … that's not typical either. But, well, there are other neurological problems to consider. It's just going to take time."

Dean nodded and noticed Jess doing the same. He felt about as numb as she looked.

The doctor must have noticed.

"I'm sorry if I've overwhelmed you," he said. "Why don't we just wait and see what we find out and save the worry for later. We might not find anything, and this may never happen again. Come on. Sam's room is just around the corner."

Sam was sitting up in the hospital bed. He looked tired and embarrassed, but he gave them a weary smile when they walked in.

"Hey," he said softly.

Jessica leapt the last few feet to his bed and threw her arms around him, but didn't say anything.

"Hey," he said again, this time in a soothing voice. He reached up to return the hug. "It's all right. I'm OK. I promise."

Jessica gave a loud sniff in reply, and Dean took a few steps forward.

"You really OK?" he asked hesitantly. He figured he was hiding his emotions better than Jess, but he doubted Sam was fooled.

"Yeah," Sam said as Jess disentangled herself. "Still a little bit of a headache, but nothing special."

"What happened?" Jess demanded in a soggy voice.

Sam sighed.

"I … don't know," he began haltingly, staring into space. "I was … getting the beer. And then … it just hit me. There was this sharp, hot pain in my head and then … I was seeing things. Somewhere else. Bad things."

"What?" Dean asked.

Sam turned haunted eyes on him.

"It was … a man. In an apartment. And there was … something there. Something I couldn't see. It opened his window. And he closed it. But it opened it again. And he … went over to check it out. And he … leaned out to get a better look at it. And it … the window … slammed down on his neck. And …" here Sam's voice got husky. "And his … head … rolled. Into the window box."

Dean couldn't do anything but blink. He was stunned. He didn't know what he had been expecting, but it definitely hadn't been that … graphic. Why would Sam be hallucinating that?

He looked at Sam and could tell he was asking himself the same question. Jessica, meanwhile, looked like she was about to fly apart.

"Sam?" she whispered. He turned to her, but she didn't say anything else. He looked down.

"I know," he said. "I don't know. I … don't know."

The fraying edges of Sam's voice brought Dean back to himself, and he jumped into big brother mode.

"That's right. We don't know anything. And until we do, we're not going to worry about it. The doctors will figure it out. I'm sure it's nothing. They'll give you a pill, and it will never happen again."

"A pill." Sam said flatly. "You think there's a pill for that?"

"You think there's not?" It was the kind of nonsensical argument that drove Sam nuts. Soon he was gearing up for an argument, which at least took the shell-shocked look out of Sam's eyes for a minute.

"Dean."

"Marie."

Sam's forehead creased. "Marie?"

"Antoinette."

Sam rolled his eyes and grunted. "Dean … if you're going to try historical insults, at least get the facts straight. Marie Antoinette didn't cut off people's heads. She lost her head."

Now Dean was rolling his eyes. "Geek."

Sam gave a resigned sigh. "Jerk."

But he backed it up with a small smile, which Dean returned.

Having dampened the tension a bit, the trio was able to wait somewhat calmly for the doctor to come to get Sam for his MRI. Jess went with him, but Dean made an excuse to stay behind. He had a call to make.

He pressed #1 on his speed dial and waited for an answer.

"Dad?


	16. Chapter 16

John was, predictably, on the road when the phone rang.

"Yeah," he answered.

"Dad?"

"Dean. Good. I was getting ready to call you. You done in Colorado yet?"

Dean hesitated for a moment which cued John's frown. "Uh, no, Dad. I'm still in California."

"Still? That spirit give you problems?"

"Well, yeah, actually. But that's not why I'm still here."

John knew that silence could be used to more effect than griping where his oldest son was concerned, so he didn't say anything – just let Dean stew for a moment in the unspoken disapproval.

Dean cleared his throat, evidently getting the point, and started talking.

"I, uh, decided to save some money and stay at Sammy's place."

John drew in a deep, long-suffering breath.

"And, uh, since it was Saturday and there was no real rush on the Colorado job, I let him talk me into staying an extra day."

John pursed his lips at the "no real rush" part, but still didn't say anything.

"But Dad – Sam and I were playing pool and …" Dean paused here, and John suddenly realized that the hint of a tremor in his voice wouldn't come from guilt at taking a day off. But Dean rushed on before John could really think about what that meant.

"And, uh, Sam collapsed. I'm at the hospital, and they're doing tests, and … and Dad … they don't know what it is, but … but it could be bad."

The quality of John's silence changed – from disapproval to desperate disbelief in seconds flat. He was pretty sure his heart had stopped, and he knew for a fact that he wasn't breathing.

But a change in the quality of a silence is, unfortunately, hard to hear over a cellphone, and Dean apparently missed it.

"Dad?" The tremble was replaced by heat. "Dammit, Dad! I can't believe you're –"

"Dean."

The ragged quality of John's voice must have convinced Dean that whatever he'd been about to say wasn't relevant. He stopped and drew in a shaky sigh.

"Bad …" John started, choking on the word. "Bad how?"

Dean hesitated, and John surmised that he again had something he didn't want to say. Something John didn't want to hear.

"He's OK right now – he's awake and fine. But they're, uh, they're checking for a," here he tripped over the word, "brain tumor."

And John again couldn't find the breath for a reply.

"But his doctor didn't seem to think that would be it," Dean rushed to add.

"They didn't?" John rasped out, grabbing onto the life preserver the words represented.

"No," Dean reassured. "But," and John could actually hear Dean's regret at getting his hopes up and realized that the best case scenario must not be all that much better than the worst. "But he said if it's not … that … then it might be a, a neurological problem. Like … like schizophrenia."

"What?" John gasped. "Why would they think that?"

Had Sam been talking about what they did? Surely he knew better.

"Because he," Dean started, but broke off. "When he … he had a hallucination or something."

"What?" This time it was confused. Dean sighed again.

"Like I said, we were at a bar playing pool. Sam went to get the beer and when I turned around, he had dropped the beer and was clutching his head like he had a bad headache. And then he fell down and then … he zoned out. And when … he came back, he said he'd … he'd … I don't know. Hallucinated."

John finally had to pull over at that. He definitely couldn't concentrate on the road at this point.

"I … uh …" he stuttered, then gave up. "God."

"Yeah," Dean said, quietly.

Neither one said anything for a few minutes. Then Dean cleared his throat and took a deep breath. John braced himself.

"Dad – I … I think you should come."

"Dean," John sighed.

"No, Dad. You _know_ you want to come. And _I_ know Sam would want you to be here. He's scared, Dad. He needs you. _We_ need you."

John closed his eyes against the emotion those words provoked. Dean was right – he did want to go. He wanted – needed – to see Sam with his own eyes. Do what he could to make sure he was OK, make him OK. But.

But.

He just didn't know if he could. And he didn't believe Dean could be right about Sam wanting him there.

"Dean," he tried again.

"Dad."

John sighed. "Dean, I can't," he began. "I—"

"Dad, no. You can."

"Dean," John bit out. He was feeling guilty and feeling guilty made him angry. "I just … You know I can't just pick up and go. I was about to call you to come help me if you were done in Colorado. I've got a job in –"

"Dad, come on," Dean interrupted. John wasn't sure he'd ever heard Dean use that tone with him. "It can wait. This is Sam with a _brain tumor_. How can you hide behind a job?"

"Hide behind a job? Dean, this is a ghost decapitating people with windows. One man's already died, and I can help. I can't help Sam, even if I'm in Palo Alto. You know how this works. This is what we do, and it's important."

Silence.

"Dean?"

More silence. And then, in a hesitant rasp, "Did you say decapitating with windows?"

Thank God. He was going to buy that as an excuse. "Yes," John said.

Silence.

"Dean?"

"Uh. Dad. That's … that's what Sam … hallucinated."

"What?" _What?_

"That's … Sam … it was a man … getting his head cut off by a window."

Silence.

"Dad?"

"That's … impossible."

"No shit."

"It … I mean … that's … a hell of a coincidence."

"Dad."

"Well, it must be … That's …"

"Dad." Dean said the word with the same tone he had used for brain tumor earlier. And John gave in.

"I … That means …"

"Yeah."

"Get your brother out of there."

"Out of here? And go where?"

John's mind raced. He had no idea what to tell Dean, but he knew if what they were thinking was right, Sam needed to be far away from people who could diagnose him as schizophrenic. He considered turning around and heading to California … but that left the situation in Michigan, and if Sam was having … visions … about it, there must be something going on there. He had to go on.

But …

"Saginaw. Meet me in Saginaw."


	17. Chapter 17

Dean flipped his phone shut and sank into a nearby chair.

Then jumped back up.

Then sank back down.

Shit, shit, shit.

What … just what?

What was he going to do? What was going on? What was he going to tell Sam? What was Sam going to tell Jessica? What was going on?

And what was he going to do? Had he mentioned that one yet?

Whatever it was, he decided suddenly, shooting back to his feet, it had to be done now. Saginaw was at least a two-day drive. They needed to get going now.

But he just as quickly sat back down. He _had_ to figure out what he was going to say to Sam first.

He just had to do it fast.

OK. Focus on the positive – it's probably not a brain tumor. That's good. That's really good. Now he just had to convince Sam that the alternative was a positive thing.

Right.

'Screw it,' Dean thought. 'I'll just wing it.'

And if he didn't exactly jump up this time, at least he also didn't sit back down.

He did, however, pause just inside Sam's door. Sam was back from his tests, and his eyes were closed. But he obviously wasn't asleep. He was running a hand lazily through Jessica's hair, and Jessica obviously was asleep. One of her hands was clasping the hand that Sam wasn't stroking her hair with. The other was folded beneath her head, cushioning it where it lay across Sam's lap. Her face was turned toward the door, and her mouth was slightly open.

It was an … intimate … scene – one that Dean hated to interrupt. Especially with the news that he had.

'Not a brain tumor. Not a brain tumor," he reminded himself. Out loud he whispered, "Sam."

Sam opened his eyes immediately and shot Dean a twisted-up, cynical sort of smile. But Dean had to work to return even that.

He sighed heavily and stepped forward. He hesitated, then decided to take the most direct route.

"Sam, we've got to go."

Sam's face briefly registered surprise – his mouth fell open in an unspoken, 'Oh.' But then he looked down, and then he looked back up, it was gone.

"I … uh. Sure."

Huh. That was … unexpectedly easy.

"Sure?"

"Yeah. I mean … I understand. You've … got to go. Go save someone, right?"

Oh crap.

"Dude. Geez. No. Get your ears cleaned out. Do you really think I'd just leave you here? No, man – I said _we've_ got to go. You and me. We've got to get out of here."

Other people might have said Sam looked at him like he'd grown a second head. But Dean had seen Sam's reaction to something growing a second head, and he took that better than this.

"Huh?"

"We've got to go. Now. Come on. We're meeting Dad in Saginaw. He's already on his way there."

The look on Sam's face could only be described as astonished.

"Uh, Dean – I know I said I'd go hunting with you every now and then, but this really isn't a good time."

If Dean had the time, he would have been offended. First Sam thought he was just going to abandon him in the hospital and now he was accusing Dean of wanting to drag him off hunting with a brain tumor? Maybe Sam did have a neurological problem.

Still, he'd probably rather believe that than the truth, Dean reminded himself. He took a deep breath, trying to calm down and gather his courage.

"Sam, we've got to get you out of _here_," he said. "What … happened. It wasn't a brain tumor. It wasn't a hallucination."

Now the astonishment hardened into apprehension.

"Did you talk to the doctor?" he said, clearly wondering what could be so bad that Dean wouldn't want him to undergo treatment.

"No – I talked to Dad."

Sam shook his head as though trying to jar loose the part that would make this conversation make sense.

"Dean – wha—?"

"The guy with the window and the head," Dean interrupted. "It, uh, it actually happened."

Pause.

"Come again?"

Dean grimaced, but went on.

"You didn't hallucinate it. You … I don't know what you'd call it. But it's not a hallucination if it's real."

"Real?" Sam's voice was barely a whisper.

"Yeah," Dean said, hating to confirm. Sam looked away to stare blankly at a far wall.

"How … how do you know?"

"Dad. He's, uh, he was already on his way there when I called. Said he'd heard about a spirit that was decapitating people with windows. And … I mean, how could that be a coincidence?"

"But … why? Why would I … see … that?"

"I don't know, Sam. But there's got to be some reason. That's why we've got to get to Saginaw."

Sam shifted his gaze back to Dean, but it was no less blank. He just nodded absently.

"Hey," Dean said, shrugging, "it's better than a brain tumor."

Sam kept nodding, but his gaze drifted away again. Dean wanted to give him a minute to try and process it – but that'd take weeks and months. And he didn't even have minutes.

"Sam," he said, gently. "We've got to go. It's a long drive to Michigan, and it's probably best if we're long gone when that doctor comes back with your test results."

Sam was nodding again, but it had taken on a slightly less dazed quality. He started to push himself up, then stopped and looked down, drawing both their attentions to his lapful of blonde hair.

That snapped him out of his daze.


	18. Chapter 18

Sam waited for the door to click shut, then took a deep breath. He and Dean had agreed it would be better if Dean didn't sit in on this talk, but he was under strict orders to keep it short.

He looked down and started pushing Jess's hair away from her face.

"Jess?" he whispered. "Jess, wake up."

"Mmm," was her response.

"Come on Jess. It's time to get up. Your neck's going to hurt if you stay in that position any longer anyway."

"Mmhm," she repeated. But began pushing herself up. She looked around for a second before settling her squinty, bleary, just-woken-up gaze on him. Then she smiled.

"Hey," she croaked softly.

And Sam couldn't help but grin back. That look was one of the best things about having a fiancée, about having this fiancée. She always woke up like this.

"Hey," he replied, amused. Her hair was mussed, she had sheet creases imprinted on her cheek and there was a large spot of drool on his commandeered hoodie. And all together, it somehow added up to beautiful.

Suddenly, though, her smile vanished.

"Oh my God. Sweetie. I'm so sorry. I can't believe I fell asleep. How are you doing? Are you OK? Have the doctors said anything? Have you had any more pain? When are the results supposed to be back?"

"Jess – Jess," he broke into her tumult of questions with his most soothing voice. "Everything's OK. I'm fine. No more pain at all … In fact, that's why I woke you. I needed my legs back so I could get out of this place."

He tried to back that claim up with his most winning smile, but was aware that it felt a little off. And he wasn't surprised when Jess didn't return it.

"Out of … here? The hospital? Sam. What? How long was I asleep?"

Sam felt his smile fall away.

"Not long," he admitted.

"So … what's going on? I thought they were keeping you for at least 24 hours."

Sam swallowed. "Jess … we need to … I've got to … tell you something."

Her expression immediately turned fearful. "What?" she whispered.

Sam knew she was thinking the worst and almost jumped in to reassure her. Almost. 'But then,' he thought, 'any reassurance I might give would be a lie.'

He agreed with Dean that there was really no getting around telling her the truth anymore, but he couldn't fool himself into thinking that she was going to take it well.

"Jess, I don't have a brain tumor, and I'm not schizophrenic."

Sam's tone left no room for relief. Jess blanched.

"And I'm not on drugs," Sam added, interpreting her reaction. "Just … remember that. I'm not on drugs, and I'm not crazy. OK?"

"… OK," Jess ventured uncertainly.

"OK," Sam repeated. And then again, for good measure, "OK." He tried to steel himself for what was about to happen.

"Jess, I … what I told you? About my family? About what my dad and Dean do? It … it wasn't … true."

Jess's brow furrowed and she shook her head, indicating she didn't understand.

"They're not … CIA agents."

Still nothing from Jess. Sam sighed.

"My mom – I told you about how she died in a fire. But it wasn't from a bomb.

"The fire started in my nursery. That night my dad heard my mom scream. He ran into my room and found my mom somehow … on the ceiling … Like, pinned up there. And then she burst into flames."

"I … God, Sam … I …" Jess opened and closed her mouth a few times, obviously searching for the words, then shook her head in defeat. "But … I don't get it. What happened? And what does it have to do with you skipping out of the hospital?"

"Well, uh, see, my dad eventually … determined … that the fire wasn't … natural. We don't know exactly what happened, but Dad's been trying to figure it out since. He, uh … we … think it was a demon."

"A … demon." Jess's voice was flat and her face blank – something Sam had never seen. She was normally excessively expressive. Sam wasn't sure what to make of that, but he pressed on.

"Turns out they're not make believe," he said with a weak smile. "Neither are ghosts or werewolves or … well, a lot of things most people think are."

"Sam –" Jess started. But Sam could guess what she was about to say, so he interrupted.

"I know it sounds crazy, Jess, I know. In fact, it is crazy. But … it's also real. And it's what my family does. What I spent my childhood doing. Hunting for ghosts and monsters and demons and –"

"Sam, stop," Jessica gasped. And her face was no longer blank. She looked scared – which, Sam guessed, who could blame her? "Sweetie, I'm going to get the doctor, OK? I'll be right back. It'll be all right, OK?"

There were tears forming in her eyes, and Sam kind of wished it was that simple. That she could get the doctor, and they'd give him medicine that would make it all go away.

But.

"Jess – no. It's … I'm not crazy, OK? You can ask Dean, and he'll tell you it's all true. All my scars? They're not from terrorists. They're from exorcisms gone bad and poltergeists we didn't expect. We've never lived in England; we moved around a lot, because my dad was following clues, looking for a trail to what killed my mom, but it was always in the U.S. I'm sorry I lied. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, but … I mean … How could I?"

The tears were threatening to spill over now, and Jess still kept looking at the door, ready to make a break for it.

"Sam," she whispered brokenly. But Sam didn't let her finish.

"Dean!" he called out. And Dean immediately appeared in the door. They'd expected this, planned for it.

"Dean, tell her it's true."

Dean turned toward Jess, apology in his eyes. "Jess … it's true."

"You don't even –" she began.

"The demons, the ghosts, the hunting, it's all true." He said it gently, but when Jess's mouth fell open in disbelief, he shot Sam a look and walked back out.

Jessica didn't move.

"Jess?"

Her eyes slid closed, but she answered. "Why are you telling me this now?"

From the apprehension in her voice, Sam figured she must have guess that there was more. He watched her closely as he answered.

"Because it turns out that … hallucination … wasn't a hallucination."

She opened her eyes and looked at him, her face once again blank.

"What do you mean?"

"It was … I was … dreaming … about something that was really happening. My dad's on his way to look into it right now."

"Has … this … happened before?"

"No."

"So what makes you think –"

"Jess. I don't know what it means or what's going on. But – I know it's not something they're going to have a pill for."

"How? How do you know that? Sam, whether it's real or not, it's not normal for you to have seen it."

"Jessica, if I stay here and try to explain all this to the doctors, they're going to have me committed. Even the parts that I understand, that I know how to explain – they'll think I'm insane. That's why I need to leave."

"No."

"What?"

"No, Sam. You can't leave. Not until they've done the tests. What if you're wrong? What if it is a brain tumor? There's been research on tumors causing increased brain activity in normally inactive areas. Just … just don't tell them anything more than you've already told them, and if they can rule out a tumor or other medical causes, then we'll go."

"Jess … I can't. I understand you're worried. But … if I'm having … visions … about whatever's going on in Saginaw, then there must be a reason. That's the way these things work. I've got to go figure out what it is."

"To Saginaw?" Jess exclaimed shrilly.

Oh yeah. He hadn't told her that part. Shoot. If she was this against his leaving the hospital, she definitely wasn't going to be supportive of his leaving the state.

"Uh. Yeah. That's apparently where the guy in my … whatever … lived. Dean and I are going to meet my dad there."

"Sam!"

"Jess."

They locked eyes the same way bucks lock antlers in a fight, mentally pushing against each others' wills. Jess was the first to blink, but she still wasn't willing to cede any ground.

"No," she said, simply but firmly.

It had never been a word Sam reacted well to, even coming from people he loved.

"Jess, this isn't your decision. I've dealt with this stuff my whole life, and I know how the doctors are going to react. Even if I don't tell them the whole story, it could get out of control fast."

"No."

"Jess."

"No."

Sam took a couple of deep breaths that didn't really help.

"I'm sorry, but I have to go," he said, swinging out of the bed. "I'll call you when we get there. Hopefully all this will make more sense by then."

"Sam. No!" Not so simply anymore. And firm was really an understatement, too.

Sam didn't say anything, just started getting dressed. His clothes were still damp and smelled like an all-night bender. They'd have to stop at the apartment. All the more reason to hurry.

He pulled his head through his shirt and found Jess starring at him, her mouth set in a thin line, her jaw stubbornly set. He could tell she was clenching her teeth. She did that when she was angry.

"Jess –" he began. But rather than waiting to hear what he was going to say – which, granted, he didn't really have anything new to offer – she spun on her heel and stormed out.


	19. Chapter 19

Note: The 75 pounds thing is totally pulled out of thin air. I was afraid that if I started Googling how much force it takes to severe a human head, I'd end up on some NSA list. If you find it an implausible number, feel free to Google it yourself and send me your findings for when I edit. I can't think of any prize to give for such a service, but I'm open to suggestions.

And P.S. – I've taken some artistic license with the "Nightmare" timeline. I would feel worse about it if the show's timelines ever made much sense.

Chapter 19

"Well. We're here." Dean cut the engine, paused for a moment then turned to Sam with I-hope-you're-prepared-for-this eyebrows. Sam looked from him to the door of his father's hotel room and knew that he wasn't.

He'd though that a two-day drive would give him plenty of time to straighten things out in his head, but it turned out time flies when you're on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Thinking about it all had given him a 2,500-mile headache that he was hoping against hope wasn't really a sign that another … episode … was on its way. Or "fit," as Dean had taken to calling it.

So far, though, all the scenes playing in Sam's head were grim in purely predictable ways. Ways not involving windows. Jess thrusting her engagement ring into his hand. Dad looking at him with cold, uninterested eyes.

He looked back at Dean, gave him a half-hearted shrug and pulled the handle on the Impala's door. He took his time getting his bag out of the trunk, and by the time he slammed it shut, Dean was already pounding on room 108's door.

Sam hung back, tense, as the door swung open. John was back lit by the lamps of the hotel room, so Sam couldn't see his face. He watched as his Dad greeted Dean, clapping him on the shoulder, commenting on his still-vivid bruises and ushering him in. Then he took a step out and looked around, presumably for Sam.

Knowing that he couldn't put it off any longer, Sam squared his shoulders and stepped forward.

"Hey, Dad."

John's eyes were not cold and uninterested – but neither was his gaze warm and indulgent. He looked hard at Sam for a moment, then nodded.

"Hi, Sam."

Then he stepped aside to let him in.

The hotel room brought it all back. It was cheap and stuffy with garish bedspreads and a liberal sprinkling of Dad's own brand of art taped to the walls.

It made Sam's stomach churn to be back there. Or, at least, it didn't help with all the stomach churning that was already going on.

"All right," John said as he closed the door. "Here's what I've got. At about 9:15 p.m. on Saturday, Roger Miller was supposedly home alone when he decided to lean back against his windowsill and bare his neck to what was probably normally a perfectly nonviolent window. Apparently coincidentally, the open window chose that time to fall closed. Or rather, to slam itself closed – I estimate it would have had to have about 75 pounds of force behind it to sever Miller's head the way it did.

Sam set his bags down and contemplated commenting on the way his Dad had apparently chosen to ignore his four-year absence. He decided against it.

"Is this the guy in your … vision … Sam?" John asked, holding out a photo.

Sam took it and again had to swallow down the nausea – last time he'd seen that face, it hadn't been attached to a body. He nodded.

John mirrored the movement, though, if it made him nauseous there was no indication of it.

"I thought so. All right then. And I'm guessing that the window falling closed wasn't as coincidental as the police would like to think?"

Sam shrugged but shook his head.

"Any idea what did set it off?"

Again, Sam shrugged and shook his head.

John gave a disgruntled sigh. "Sam …" he started, and Sam could guess what was going to come next. Marines don't shrug. Echoes of that truism rang throughout his memories of adolescence. Along with 'Don't roll your eyes at me, boy.'

He mentally rolled his eyes in anticipation.

But John trailed off, gave another sigh and let it go.

"Anyway," he said. "I went to Miller's apartment, scanned it for EMF and all the usual indicators and came up with nothing. But there's this: His brother, a Jim Miller, killed himself the night before. Suffocated himself – carbon monoxide poisoning in his own garage."

Sam's head shot up, suddenly paying close attention, but John and Dean didn't notice.

"So you're thinking there was some bad blood between the brothers?" Dean was asking. "Jim's spirit killed Roger?"

John was opening his mouth to reply in the affirmative when Sam spoke up.

"No," he said.

"No?" John asked.

"Uh. Yeah. Jim didn't kill Roger. At least, I don't think so."

"So you _do_ know what killed Roger," John surmised exasperatedly.

"Uh. No. But I'm pretty sure it wasn't Jim."

"Sam." John's voice would have been called a whine if Marines whined.

"I'm pretty sure," Sam said over it, "that whatever killed Roger also killed Jim."

"What?"

"I, uh, think I dreamed that, too."

"_What_?" The first what had come from John alone, but Dean chimed in with him on the second. Sam was pretty sure he was going to have an ulcer before this was over.

"Uh. Yeah."

John and Dean just stared at him open-mouthed for a moment. Dean was the first to find his voice.

"So, what? You were just going to let me think this was the first time that had happened. That's crap, Sam. You don't keep secrets like that."

"No, no," Sam rushed to explain. "That was the first time that had happened."

"Then what—"

"No, I mean I really actually dreamed about the garage thing. Dreamed. Like, while I was asleep. The night before the bar … episode. I thought it was just a nightmare."

Comprehension dawned.

"That's why you woke up that night," Dean deduced. "I knew I hadn't made any noise."

That earned him a non-mental eye roll.

"Yeah, butt wipe. You've got a great career ahead of you as a cat burglar."

"Butt wipe? Dude, that's both gross and juvenile."

"Oh, come on. Like you have room to talk. You called me a douche bag less than 30 minutes ago."

"Well you are a–"

"Boys."

Silence. John, Sam noted, had no objections to rolling his own eyes.

"The dream Sam."

"Uh. Right. Well, I mean. I guess I don't know for sure that it was this, but …"

"Right," John agreed. "I'll see about getting a photo to confirm with, but for now I think we can assume it was. What did you see in the dream? What makes you think it wasn't a suicide."

Sam thought back to it. Remembered the guy breaking the key off in the ignition, trying to kick the window out, holding his breath for as long as possible. And shivered despite the room's over-worked heater. He wasn't sure which was worse – thinking that the images had come from his own psyche or knowing that they had actually happened. Was it selfish to think the former?

"Just … trust me. It wasn't voluntary."

That apparently wasn't the answer John was looking for.

"Just trust you? Four years gone, and I should 'just trust you?' Sorry, Sam, you're going to have to give us a little more to go on than that."

"Dad," Dean tried to placate.

"I wondered when you'd bring that up," Sam said wearily. "Just … I promise, I don't remember anything important, anything that would help. There was nobody else in the garage, but the guy didn't stay there of his own free will."

"How would you even know what's important at this point?" John accused.

"I know what's important because you pounded it into my skull for 17 years," Sam bit out. "I wish I didn't know, but I do."

"Oh, don't be such a drama queen, Sam."

"Dad, I'm having freakin' visions. I think I'm entitled to be a little freaked out."

John closed his eyes. Sam would have bet good money that he was counting to 10. It was such a patronizing move that Sam spun around to leave. Dean grabbed his arm before he made it to the door. Sam turned back, saw the tension around Dean's eyes and mouth and thought he might not the only one to get an ulcer out of this.

"Sam. Don't …"

'Don't what?' Sam wondered. Don't let Dad get to you? Don't make Dad mad? Don't leave … again?

He was about to ask when it hit. His hands flew to his head, as though the pain was something they could block. He felt his knees start to give out.

Suddenly, he isn't in the motel room anymore. He's in a kitchen. A blonde woman is chopping onions and telling the man in front of her that she doesn't know what he means, that she never did anything. He agrees, but suddenly the knife is floating through the air and the woman is begging – "Max, please!"

"For every time you stood there and watched," the man insists. "Pretending it wasn't happening."

And suddenly the knife is no longer floating through the air, but impaled through the woman's eyeball.

Blood splatters everywhere, and Sam wakes up to Dean calling his name.


	20. Chapter 20

It didn't get any easier the second time around, this seeing his brother collapse in pain. At least he was close enough to catch Sam this time, though – of course, that was a mixed blessing.

"Dad," Dean grunted, struggling under 200 pounds of limp Sam.

John had been watching from across the room with a shocked expression, but Dean's cry snapped him out of his stupor. He was at his son's side in about three steps.

Together they were able to quickly maneuver Sam to the nearest bed. John looked on blankly while Dean tried to untangle Sam's arms and legs and make him more comfortable.

"Is this what it was like last time?" John choked out, sounding sick.

Dean thought about it for a second, then shook his head. "Naw. Last time was worse. At least this time there's no broken glass – no blood."

When he looked up and caught John's eye, Dean was taken aback by the real fear he saw there. It wasn't the first time he seen his Dad afraid, but it sure didn't happen often. Oddly enough, though, he found it a little comforting to know that he wasn't alone in finding this panic-worthy.

When he looked back down, Sam's eyes were starting to focus on things that were actually there, so he started calling Sam's name and slapping his cheeks gently.

It was obvious when Sam landed completely back into the here and now. For a fraction of a second he looked up at Dean like the bottom had just dropped out of everything. Then he shot up and toward the bathroom.

John and Dean listened uncomfortably to the retching. After a minute or two it stopped and a faucet turned on. A minute more and Sam came out with a dripping face and a haunted expression.

"Bad?" Dean ventured.

Sam nodded and averted his eyes.

Dean shot a look at John, trying to convey that he should let Dean take the lead on this. But John was looking determinedly at the wall just past Sam. Still, he didn't seem like he was about to jump in, so Dean forged ahead.

"So, uh, what … what do we need to know?" he asked carefully and as casually as possible.

Sam ducked his head and made his way to one of the beds where he took a moment to collect himself. Then he took a deep breath and started talking.

"Well," he said, miserably, "assuming this … episode … was related to the last ones, I, uh, don't think we're dealing with an angry spirit after all. There was a man and a woman and, um, the man was saying something about the woman not stopping something. And then … well, he seemed to be levitating a knife somehow. And then it stabbed her. In the eye."

Dean swallowed hard and tried to imagine what it must have been like to watch a knife go through someone's eye. And then tried to un-imagine it.

He winced. Then, "Any clues as to how we could find these people?"

Sam sighed and fell back onto the bed, rubbing his head.

"No," he said. "I don't know where they were. Or what the guy thought the woman did, or didn't stop someone else from doing, rather."

"Well, I guess we can at least assume they have something to do with the Millers, right?"

"Yeah. I guess so," Sam said, nodding but keeping his eyes closed. "Um … the woman did call the man Max, I think."

"Max?" John said, speaking up from the corner for the first time since Sam woke up.

"Yeah."

"Jim had a son named Max. I talked to him yesterday. Curly-haired blonde hair? Kind of … I don't know. Pinched looking?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded, sitting up.

"The woman – she was what? Shoulder-length blonde hair? A silk and pearls sort?"

Sam nodded.

"That's probably Jim's wife. Damn. And you said it was Max killing them? Like, with telekinesis?"

Sam shrugged. "Sure seemed like it," he said.

"I don't know, Sam. I mean, he seemed like a weird kid, but … I didn't get that kind of vibe from him."

John looked at Sam. Dean guessed he was expecting Sam to jump in and argue with him. But Sam just looked tired. John shrugged.

"Well, let's go."

"Go?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. We've got to hurry. I don't know about the dream, but that first vision couldn't have been more than an hour or two before it happened."

"What?" For some reason Sam seemed to choke on the word. Dean took a couple of steps toward him.

"What?" John asked.

"It happened … The … It was before? The vision was before it happened?" He was all but hyperventilating.

"Yeah," John said, still not seeing the problem.

"Then … I, I could have stopped it? It didn't have to happen?"

Dean closed his eyes, suddenly understanding. Sam hadn't realized – he'd assumed he was seeing it as it happened. "Sam," he began.

But John jumped in.

"Sam, we don't have time for this. If we hurry, maybe we can stop it this time."

To Dean's surprise, this actually worked. Sam pulled himself together – though he looked a little shell shocked – and followed John out the door. Dean watched speculatively before heading after them. He thought he might have rathered Sam argued.

Fifteen minutes later they were pulling up in front of a white house in a nice neighborhood. The three men climbed out of the truck, and John and Dean turned automatically toward the tailgate. They were just pulling out the toolbox full of weapons when Sam spoke up.

"What are y'all doing?" he asked. He was halfway across the street.

Dean made a face at him. "Come on, Sam. You haven't been gone that long. What do you think we're doing?"

"What are you planning to do with that?" Sam nodded at the revolver in Dean's hand. He was frowning so hard that Dean thought about warning him his face was going to stick like that.

"Uh, well, I thought I might bag a turkey, make a casserole … That's what you bring to something like this, right? A casserole?"

"Dean. Dad. This isn't our regular stuff. You can't shoot this guy."

"The hell we can't," Dean said. "Silver bullets will work just as well on him as anything else."

"He's a person, Dean. You can't kill a person."

"Actually, they're a lot easier to kill than something that's already dead."

"Dean." Sam was pleading now. Dean couldn't understand what his deal was. What else could they do? Make the guy promise to start playing nice? He was apparently murdering his family, for Christ's sake.

"I'm not going to let you do this," Sam said, his tone resolute.

Dean was opening his mouth to retort, but John beat him to it.

"Actually, Sam, you're not going to be there to stop us. You're staying in the truck."

"_What_?" Sam's voice, Dean noted, had reached that pitch that he saved for his most incensed moments.

"We don't really know what this deal is, and you're out of practice. You'd be a liability in there."

Sam just stood there for a moment with his mouth hanging open. Dean took a step back and counted off the seconds before the explosion he knew was coming. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three—

"I am _not_ a 6-year-old anymore. You can't just lock me in the car while you and Dean go on a hunt and expect me to stay put. I won't. And you can't make me."

Dean winced. That last wasn't going to help Sam's I'm-a-grown-up case.

"Watch it boy. You're walking a thin line."

"Oh no. I've long since crossed over that line, and I'm not going back. I resigned my post in your little army four years ago, and you're not my commanding officer anymore."

"Deserted your post, you mean. And if you're gonna' hunt with us, you're going to obey my rules. Right now, that means you're staying here."

"I don't want to hunt with you. I want to be in California writing my _ethics_ paper. But I don't think I have much choice, and I'm not gonna' give you one either."

"You go in there, four years of nappin' and readin' and yappin' under your belt and what you're gonna' do is get me or your brother killed."

Sam's opened his mouth again, but suddenly snapped it shut. He glared John down for a moment, then stormed back to the passenger door. Dean watched him climb in with a tightness in his chest. He wanted to speak up, tell his Dad about the shapeshifter and how Sam wasn't out of practice. But one look at the thundercloud that was John Winchester right now, and his mouth was sealed.

Instead he checked his gun and followed his Dad to the door. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Sammy glaring through the window.

John held his hand up to knock, but they could hear the yelling through the door.

"You didn't do anything. You didn't stop them, not once!"

Dean and John exchanged a glance, then John slammed a shoulder into the door. It swung open, and they rushed in, guns drawn.

The knife floating mid-air almost caused Dean to falter. It was one thing to hear Sam describe it in a dream and a whole nother thing to see it for himself.

"Officer Bryant?" the woman asked. She didn't seem as relieved to see them as Dean would have expected, given that the floating knife was pointed at her. He wondered what his Dad's cover story had been.

At her words, the blonde kid who was apparently behind the floating knife trick turned, and everything went to hell.


	21. Chapter 21

Sam had been watching restlessly from the truck as his father and brother made their way cautiously across the street and up to the door. He tried to tell himself the bad feeling he was getting was to be expected – when had he ever had a good feeling about a hunt?

But then the door slammed and every blind in the house flipped closed simultaneously and Sam's stomach was in his throat.

"Shit," he muttered, climbing back out of the truck and sprinting across the street. He all but crashed into the door, he was going so fast.

Turning the knob got him nowhere, so he moved onto a physical assault that proved equally unhelpful. Then he started banging.

"Dean? Dad?" he called. But though he could hear the murmurs of voices on the other side, they didn't yell back.

He ran around the house hoping to find another door – but it was similarly unyielding. Then, remembering the dream, he moved to the garage hoping to get in through the door inside.

No luck there, either.

That left windows. And since he didn't want to be heard breaking in, it would be better to find one of the second floor.

He walked back around to the side of the house and found a climbable tree near what he hoped was a bedroom window. He shimmied up, slipped out of his jacket, wrapped said jacket around his elbow and pulled back.

But just as he was getting ready to let loose, the headache hit …

"You don't understand," the blonde guy from the earlier vision is screaming. Two depressingly familiar guns are piled at his feet, and Dean and John are backing up, hands raised non-threateningly in the air. "You don't know what she did."

"No, but we know what you did," Dean says in a not-so-placating tone. Few spirits respond well to attempts to pacify them, so he is understandably out of practice.

Even so, it seems to draw the man up short.

"What do you mean?" he demands.

"We know you killed your dad and your uncle, Max," John says in that infuriatingly calm drawl of his. "We know all about your powers and how you've been using them. You trapped your dad in that garage, and you slammed that window down on your uncle. The police might not be able to find fingerprints to prove it, but we're not the police. You were about to send that knife through your mother's eyeball, but we're not going to let you."

John punctuates the statement with a loud "oof" as he is hurled into the wall. One of the guns flies into Max's hand, and he brandishes it in John's direction.

"You don't know that," he sobs, obviously unraveling. "You can't. And you can't stop me. I've let men like you push me around for 22 years, but I don't have to do that any more. I can stop it."

He pulls his hand away, but the gun stays in place. It cocks and levels itself at John. But just as the trigger pulls, he's shoved to the left.

And suddenly it's Dean, not John, standing in the path of the bullet …

Sam came to with a gasp and a mouthful of dirt. He was lying face down in the grass, trembling. Besides the headache and nausea he was coming to expect, it felt as though he might have turned an ankle and dislocated a shoulder in the fall. Even so, all he could think was "No, no, no."

It took a try or two, but he pushed himself up and resisted the urge to throw up. Then decided not to resist next time when he realized what he was going to have to do. He'd be heard if he broke a downstairs window, and he couldn't climb a tree with his shoulder out of joint.

So, he screwed his eyes shut and braced himself against the tree. He used his good arm to pick up the floppy one, looped them around one knee and used the knee to pull his hands away from him. With a sickening sort of slimy pop, he felt his shoulder slide back into place.

And then he threw up.

A minute later, he was making his way back up the tree – though much more gingerly this time. And two minutes after that he was picking his way over the jagged remnants of the window that he didn't have time to pick out.

Inside, he could hear voices wafting up from downstairs. He started to panic when he realized how close he was cutting it. Or maybe started wasn't the right word – more like, he started to top out on panic. He heard the thud as John hit the wall. Then Max started yelling: "You don't know that!"

Sam yanked the door open and flew around the corner. He made it to the landing on the stairs just in time to see the gun cock.

"No!" he screamed as the trigger was pulled.

And at that point, things got a little harder to track.

Dean had been in the middle of pushing John away, but suddenly he flew into front door.

John lost his balance after Dean's aborted shove and fell far enough to the right that the bullet only nicked his left arm.

Meanwhile, Max went flying back away from John and Dean into the kitchen, in the process loosing his mental hold on the gun.

When things settled, Alice was the only one left standing.

Sam stood there staring, stunned, at the scene for about two seconds before jerking back into action. He took the remaining stairs three at a time and slid to a stop next to John.

"Dad, are you all right?" he gasped.

"Sam? Where did you come from?"

"Upstairs," he answered.

John rolled his eyes and sighed, but followed it up with a wry smile. "I'm fine. Just a scratch. Go check on your brother."

Sam spun around to find Dean sitting up slowly, a hand rubbing the back of his head and a dazed expression on his face.

"Man are you –" he started, but was cutoff.

"Who _are_ you?" a voice behind him said. Sam turned around slowly. Max had apparently recovered a bit faster than the Winchesters. And he had retrieved the gun.

Sam just looked at him, uncertain of what to do.

"I _said_, who _are_ you?" Max demanded.

"I'm Sam," Sam answered slowly. "I'm with them." He gestured to John and Dean.

"No. I mean, who are you – how did you do that?"

"Do … what?" Sam asked with a sinking feeling.

"Knock me down. Knock him down." He gestured at Dean.

"I didn't do that." He couldn't have. He … just … couldn't.

Max just snickered. "Right. And he's a cop." He gestured at John.

"No, I –"

"Tell me who you are!" The gun was back to floating by itself.

"Max, calm down," Sam said over his suddenly pounding heart. "I don't know what happened. I swear. But … maybe if we talked, we could figure it out."

"Yeah. Talk. Right. That's obviously what you came here to do."

"Well, whyever we came here, you're the one holding the gun now. Would it hurt to talk?"

Max seemed torn. He obviously didn't trust Sam. But he must have wanted answers as well.

"Fine. But just you." He took the gun back in his hand and gestured with it for Sam to stand up and precede him into a sitting room. Sam began to comply, but Dean grabbed his arm.

"Nuh uh. No way."

"Dean –"

"Sam, I'm not letting you go off alone with him." The chandelier above them began to shake, and Sam gently pulled his arm out of Dean's grasp.

"Yes, you are."

A minute later, he was sitting down in the parlor, watching the accordion doors slide shut of their own accord. Max sat down opposite him, still holding the gun. He didn't seem like he was going to start up the conversation anytime soon, so Sam jumped in.

"You can't do this Max. You can't keep killing people."

"How do you even know about that?" Max's voice was raw – probably with fear, Sam thought.

"I … I saw you do it. I saw you kill your dad and your uncle before it happened."

"What?"

"I'm having visions, Max. About you."

"You're crazy."

"So you weren't going to launch a knife at your mom?" Sam pointed to his eye. "Right here? Is it that hard to believe Max? Look at what you can do."

"Stepmom," Max replied. Sam blinked.

"Huh?"

"She's not my mother. She's my stepmother."

"Oh," Sam said blankly. 'As if that made it somehow OK,' he thought. "OK," he said. "But you still need to let her go."

"Why?" Max asked, flatly.

"Why not?" Sam asked desperately.

"She never did anything."

Sam was starting to worry that Max was just plain crazy. The statement sounded straight psychotic. "Then why kill her?" he pleaded.

"No. I mean, she never stopped them."

"Stopped who?"

"My dad and my uncle. She never stopped them. She just stood there while they beat me senseless."

Sam's lips formed a silent Oh. Out loud he said, "Max … I'm sorry."

Max didn't seem to hear him.

"When I first found out I could move things, it was a gift" he said. "My whole life I was helpless. But now I had this. So, last week, Dad gets drunk. First time in a long time. And he beats me to hell – first time in a long time. And then I knew what I had to do."

"Why didn't you just leave?" Sam asked. Thinking, 'It worked for me.'

"It wasn't about getting away," Max said, edging toward hysterical. "Just knowing that they'd still be out there. It was about not being afraid. When my dad used to look at me, there was hate in his eyes. Do you know what that feels like?"

Sam thought about that. Disappointment? Yes. Displeasure? Yes. Maybe even disgust. But hate … ? No. He didn't think he'd ever seen that.

"No," he said softly. He found that he was relieved to be able to give that answer.

"He blamed me for everything. For his job. For his life. For my mom's death."

Sam suddenly realized he hadn't been paying attention like he should have. He shook himself out of his contemplation and tried to catch up.

"Why would he blame you for your mom's death?"

"Because she died in my nursery. While I was asleep in my crib. As if that makes it my fault."

OK. He was caught up. He wasn't actually breathing anymore, but he was caught up.

"She died in your nursery?" he asked breathlessly.

"Yeah. There was a fire. And he'd get drunk and babble on like she died in some insane way. He said that she burned up. Pinned to the ceiling."

Sam's mind was racing, along with his pulse. He wondered if Dean and John could hear the conversation out in the hall. He wondered what they were making of it. He wondered what he was making of it. The answer wasn't immediately apparent.

"Listen to me, Max," he said, earnestly. "What your dad said about what happened to your mom? It's real."

"What?" Max looked completely nonplussed.

Sam rushed on.

"It happened to my mom, too. Exactly the same. My nursery. My crib. My dad saw her on the ceiling. This must be why I've been having visions about you. You and I must be connected in some way."

Max was shaking his head, looking closer to the edge than ever.

"No. No, you're lying. My dad was a crazy, drunken bastard. He wasn't telling the truth. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't."

'Yeah,' Sam thought. 'I can see how you'd rather think that.' But out loud: "Max – I'm sorry, but … it's true."

"No." Suddenly Max was over the edge and on his feet, pointing the gun with a shaky hand. Sam eyed it worriedly and stood up as well.

"Max," he soothed, "calm down. I know all this is overwhelming – believe me, I know. But you have to calm down. Shooting me or your stepmother or anyone else isn't going to make it go away."

"Shut up," Max said. And the gun was floating again.

"Max –" Sam began. But the gunshot cut off whatever he was going to say next.

Sam stood, paralyzed for a moment, as Max crumpled to the floor – revealing a hole in the back of his head. He looked up and saw his father peeking through the gap in the doors, gun in hand.

It was actually smoking a little bit.

Sam again lost the battle against his nausea.


	22. Chapter 22

'Ladies and gentlemen,' Dean thought, 'Presenting my time machine.'

He smothered a sigh and closed his eyes to keep from rolling then. The whole family seemed to have regressed four years. Sam was stormy and silent, angry at John for any number of things that so far hadn't been named but were sure to become the topic of a very loud conversation before the night was over.

John was defensive and surly, not to mention spoiling for the aforesaid coming fight.

And Dean was stuck in the middle – both figuratively and literally. Man, it sucked being the shortest in a family of giants. As if the difference between 6'3 and 6' really meant you'd fit more comfortably into the middle of a pickup truck cab.

Dean choked on another sigh. And then almost growled when he saw Sam reach up to massage his shoulder – again.

"Oh come on, Sam. That didn't hurt."

Dean had practically had to drag Sam out of the Miller house when they hightailed it out of there. He'd felt a little bad at the time, knowing Sam was more than a little shell shocked by ... well, everything. But geez. You'd think Dean'd pulled the arm off for all the physical whining Sam was doing.

Sam just looked at him blankly. Dean rolled his eyes (with them open this time). Like he was going to fall for that innocent act.

"Your shoulder," he bit out. "I barely tugged on your arm. Quit rubbing it."

"Oh. No," Sam said flatly. "It's not that. I, uh, knocked it out of socket trying to get into the house. Had to reduce it myself. You know how that is."

Dean winced. He did know how that was – though he preferred not to reexamine the memory. Still, he had to admit – he was impressed.

"Damn, Sam. You must have been working pretty hard at getting in."

Sam gave am embarrassed sort of snort that Dean decided to count as an almost concession – a sign that maybe the atmosphere would lighten sometime soon.

"I was," Sam said. "But I didn't knock it out trying to shoulder the door open. I, uh, fell out of a tree trying to get to a second-story window."

Dean opened his mouth to follow that up, but John beat him to it.

"You fell out of a tree." And it was clear he was not so impressed. Sam immediately lost the self-deprecating ghost of a smile he'd been wearing. He mumbled a yeah and turned to stare out the passenger-side window.

Dean wasn't satisfied, however.

"Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"Why?" Sam repeated, as though it was the most absurd thing he'd ever heard. But he did turn back around, so Dean knew there must be more to the story.

"Yeah. Why'd you fall out of the tree?" he spelled out. He knew he'd hit the nail on the head when Sam ducked his chin and stared at his hands.

"I, uh, had another vision."

Dean took a long breath and exchanged a look with his dad. That's what he'd been afraid of.

Shit. They hadn't thought about that – about what could happen. If these things hit fast enough to knock Sam out of a tree, then the list of ways he could get hurt was endless.

He squinted speculatively at Sam and wondered if he could get him to wear a helmet.

Then he remembered that a vision meant more than just a dislocated shoulder.

"Where do we need to be heading?" he asked.

This must also have been an absurd question, because Sam gave him that carefully neutral look that meant he had no idea what Dean was talking about and thought it best to move slowly when dealing with crazy people.

"You vision, Sam. Do we need to be heading in the other direction or will this one do?"

"Oh," Sam said. Comprehension had apparently dawned, but he just turned back toward the window and said, "No."

Dean exchanged another look with John, this time confused.

"Uh ... No?"

Sam didn't say anything.

"Sam," John commanded.

"What?" Sam sighed.

"Answer your brother."

Sam swivelled and shot Dean pissy 'What?' eyebrows and an irritated glare.

Dean sighed. Again.

"Where do we need to go?"

"Nowhere. It's already passed. It didn't happen."

Dean pulled out his own glare when Sam left it at that.

"What?" Sam whined, crumbling under Dean's best big brother stare.

"God, Sam, it's like pulling teeth. Give me a little more to work with here."

Sam held the stare for a minute, but backed down and started talking. He was back to looking out the window, and his words were slow and flat, but Dean decided not to push his luck.

"I saw Max shoot at Dad. But you pushed him out of the way and got hit instead."

Oh. Well. That explained ... a lot.

But then what –

Oh.

"That ... that was you, wasn't it? The ... thing ... that pushed me out of the way. I didn't really have time to think about it back there, but something definitely pushed me out of the way, and it doesn't make sense for it to have been Max."

Sam didn't turn around, but he shrugged then nodded.

"I think so," he whispered. "I ... don't know what happened, though. It just ... happened. I knew you were about to die, and it just came out of me like a punch. Like a freak adrenaline thing."

Oh.

Dean tried to think of something to say, but ... well, 'gee thanks' didn't seem quite right. He snuck a glance at his dad and saw that he was staring determinedly out the windshield, jaw clenched and knuckles white. So Dean guessed they weren't going to talk about it.

Besides, they were back at the hotel.

Dean watched Sam slide out of the truck and limp toward the room. He sighed, figuring the limp was another souvenir of the last vision.

By the time he'd followed Sam and John back into the room, Sam had his cell phone in his hand, checking his voice mail Dean guessed. And from the resigned disappointment on Sam's face, he also surmised that Jessica hadn't called.

Sam dialed and brought the phone to his ear. After a few seconds: "Hey Jess. It's Sam. Just ... checking in. Like I said I would. Wish you'd answer. Uh. I think we're about done here, so I'll be home as soon as I can. Everything's fine. I love you. Call me."

Dean just gaped.

Sam looked up and noticed.

"What?" he asked wearily.

"Everything's fine? We're done here? You'll be home soon?" With each question mark, the incredulity in Dean's voice grew. "Sam, were we not at the same house tonight?"

"I don't know what you mean," Sam evaded. "Everything is fine. And I don't see any reason to stay here."

"Uh, how about the fact that we just got our first lead on the thing that killed mom ... ever? How about the fact that you're seeing soon-to-be-dead people? "

Sam had the good grace to at least look guilty then.

"Dean ..." he started, then sighed. "I've got a paper due on Thursday, finals in two weeks and a wedding in two months – I hope. I've got to get back to Palo Alto."

"You can't just pretend this never happened, Sam."

"Yes, Dean, I can. I've been pretending one thing or another all my life and I've gotten good at it. I've got a normal life waiting back there for me, and I like it."

"Are you really going to start that again?" John suddenly burst in on the conversation sounding disgusted. Sam and Dean looked around in surprise. He was leaning against the door. They'd kind of forgotten he was there.

"Listen, Sam." John lowered his voice to the tone both boys recognized as a warning. "You've had your chance at a normal life, but if nothing else, I think this proves that's not going to work. It's time for you to grow up."

Even Dean flinched a little at the words – they had a dream-crushing weight to them. He watched as the color drained from Sam's face. When he spoke, there was an angry tremor in his voice.

"I ... I can't believe you just ... You're glad, aren't you? I've been freaking out over whatever the hell this means, and you're ... glad. You think I never should have left and that now I'll have to stay. And you're glad."

"Sam," Dean said, again trying to mediate. Although, really, he thought, the placating should have come from John this time.

"No, Dean," Sam said. "It's true." He turned back to John, whose jaw was flexing with the effort of holding back whatever it was he wanted to say. "Isn't it?"

"Well what do you think, Sam?" John spat. "That you can just go back to school? Be a lawyer? Maybe make some money on the side bending spoons? And then call us whenever you have a vision?"

"Who says it's going to happen again?" Sam insisted. "It was connected to Max, and Max is dead – thanks to you."

"You would have rather I let him shoot you? What the hell were you thinking, Sam? Going in there with him, unarmed? That was the dumbest thing I've ever seen you do, and I've seen you do some pretty damn dumb things."

"Like the guns were such a big help to you. And he was a person, Dad. Not a poltergeist or a werewolf. A person. You killed a person."

"Sam, that freak was pointing a gun at you, about to pull the trigger."

There was a short silence before Sam spoke quietly.

"So am I a freak, too?"

Dean held his breath, hoping his dad would pass this test.

"Sam," John sighed. He rubbed his face, obviously stalling. "That's not what I meant. He ... you ... you're ... What's happening to you isn't your fault."

"Wasn't his fault either."

"Maybe not the getting the powers. But he chose how to use them."

"You heard what he told me about his dad and uncle. Can you blame him?"

Sam was looking straight at John, a challenge in his eyes.

But John looked away.

"Sam," he said again, and Dean could tell from his tone that he wasn't going to pass. He didn't know the right answer. "You can't just go back to California. You know that we've got things to do here. The demon was here, too. Not just in Lawrence. We've got to figure out what that means. Don't you want to find what killed your mother?"

"No, Dad. I want to get married. I want to be a lawyer. I want to have a life. And I like to think those are things Mom would have wanted me to have."

John did look up at that, and Dean saw that his eyes were cold and hard.

"Fine," he hissed. "Then go. Go have your life."

With that he stepped away from the door and opened it. Gestured for Sam to feel free to use it.

Sam held his gaze for a minute, then suddenly looked away. He shook his head, and Dean wondered what internal conversation he was having. He gathered his still-packed bags and headed out the door, pausing only to look back at Dean.

Dean watched him go, then watched John start to shut the door.

Then he made a decision.

He wasn't going to do it again. He wasn't going to make the same mistake as last time.

"Wait," he said.

John looked at him.

"Might as well leave the door open."

And he gathered his own gear and followed his little brother into the night.


	23. Chapter 23

Note: Not much to this chapter – I just missed the fun of the first few chapters and decided to take a break before getting back to the heavy stuff.

Chapter 23

The trip back started in virtual silence, although the surprised, relieved look on Sam's face when Dean caught up to him in the parking lot was worth a few thousand words, easy, in Dean's estimation.

They drove without comment to a nearby hospital and left a few hours later with a sling for Sam's shoulder and instructions to stay off the ankle as much as possible for a few days. Which shouldn't be hard considering they had a cross-country drive ahead of them.

The next stop was a new motel, which Sam tried to protest. But Dean had done the bulk of the driving on the trip to Saginaw and needed sleep, and he wasn't about to let Sam behind the wheel when they didn't know when another vision might hit.

So they stumbled into the room – which Sam insisted on paying for with his own, legitimate credit card – fell into bed and snored their way through the remainder of the night and a good chunk of the next morning.

Things were still quiet when they piled back into the car a little before noon the next day, but 2,453 miles is a long way to drive in silence.

OOO

"Uh. C – Casper."

"D. Damien."

"E … Igor."

"Igor starts with an 'I,' Dean."

Pause.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Absolutely positive."

"Oh. Uh. E … Eddie."

Pause.

"What horror movie has a character named Eddie?"

"I bet there's one out there somewhere."

"Dean, you have to be able to name the movie."

"Aw, Sam. Don't be such a tight ass."

"What's the point of playing if you're just going to make names up?"

Sigh. "Fine. Uh … E. Eddie."

"Dean –"

"Munster. Eddie Munster."

Huffy Sigh. "Fine."

Pause.

Pause.

"Your turn, Samantha."

"Oh. Right. Uh. What letter were we on?"

OOO

"Slug bug."

Whack.

"Ow!"

"That's 14 for me."

"How do you figure?"

"Convertibles count for two points; antiques count for four."

"Since when? That's never been the rules before."

"We changed them while you were gone."

"What? You and Dad played a lot of slug bug in the last four years?"

"Naw. I played by myself. Hit the passenger seat whenever I saw one and pretended it was you. It made me feel, I don't know, closer somehow."

"You're such an ass."

OOO

"Is it … corporeal?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"You think so?"

"Corporeal means solid, right?"

"Yeah … "

"Then … yeah. I think so."

Pause.

"Would other people think so?"

"Uh …"

"Dean. It's not the Loch Ness Monster, is it?"

"Uh …"

"Again? Dean. Man, you _always_ pick that."

"Well, it still _always_ takes you all 20 questions to get it."

"That's because I have this ridiculous hope that someday you'll be mature enough to play this children's game."

"Hey, that makes you ridiculous, not me. I'm just sticking with what works."

OOO

"OK. Now I need a verb and another noun. Singular."

"Uh. Grope and woman."

Snort. "OK. Here it is:

"We the _babes_ of the United States, in order to form a more _smokin'_ _harem_, establish _lust_, ensure _hot_ _love_, provide for the _fugly_ _hunger_, promote the _bitchy_ _enjoyment_ and secure the blessings of _fun_ to ourselves and our _twins_, do _grope_ this _woman_ for the United States of America."

"Heh."

"Yeah. That one's pretty good."

OOO

"Oh. Oh. Here comes another one."

"It's a … Camry. Pass."

"You sure? Dude, you could do worse. I hear they get good mileage."

"I'm not driving a foreign car."

"All right. But that's two. That means whatever we see next is yours. No arguing."

"Yeah, yeah."

Silence.

Silence.

"Hey. Here it comes. This is it. It's a … oh man. That's great."

"No way."

"Oh yeah. That's the rules, Dean. You get three chances. You should have taken the Camry. Even that Ford Focus would have been better than that."

"I'm not driving a mini van."

"That's not what the fates say."

"I'm not driving a mini van."

"Sorry bro."

"Shut up."

OOO

"Here's your Dr Pepper."

"Thanks."

"So. Did you get him?"

"Get who?"

"Whom."

"What?"

"Get whom, not who. And Dad."

Pause.

"How'd you know I was calling Dad?"

Shrug. "Good guess."

"Sam –"

"It's OK. Just 'cause I can't be in the same room with him doesn't mean that you should stop talking to him, too. I mean. I'm glad you're here. And I'm really glad I'm not hitch hiking back to California. But … you know. It's not your fight."

Silence.

"So. Did you? Get him?"

"Naw. Just voice mail again."

"Oh."

"Did you get Jess?"

Sigh. "No. Same story."

"Well. Maybe that's good. Apologies are usually better in person."

"Yeah. Maybe."

"Yeah."

OOO

"Well. Here we are."

"Yeah."

"Light's on. She must be home."

"Yeah."

Silence.

"You, uh, want me to circle the block a few times? Give y'all some time alone?"

"Uh. No? Strength in numbers, maybe?"

"I don't know, man. You don't want her to feel like you're ganging up on her."

"Oh. Yeah. Good point."

More silence.

"So. Be back in 30 minutes?"

"Uh. Better make it 45."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Shit. Good luck, man."

"Thanks."


	24. Chapter 24

Sam stood in front of the door for a good minute and a half before squaring his shoulders, sucking in a steadying breath and inserting his key.

"Jess?" he called, tentatively, sticking his head in. "I'm home."

He had called – for the 300th time – about an hour ago to let her know he'd be there soon. So she should have been expecting him. Unless she was just deleting his voice messages without bothering to listen.

He stepped cautiously all the way into the apartment and looked around. The living room and kitchen seemed to be empty, and the bathroom light was out. It was a small apartment, so that only left one place to look.

Sam set his bags down, chewed on his lip a little and headed toward the bedroom.

"Jess?" He poked his head in and frowned when he still didn't see her. Then he heard the swish of hangers being pushed around in the closet.

He crossed the room and looked in. There was a half-full suitcase on the floor and Jessica stood above it yanking clothes off the rod.

"Jess?"

"Yes?" It was short and clipped and didn't bode well.

"Uh. What are you doing?"

"Packing."

"Jess. No." It came out as a whisper.

Jess stopped and looked up at him. Her eyes were red, but dry. Still, she didn't look as certain as she sounded.

"Please," Sam said. "Let's just … talk."

"I wanted to talk six days ago. Now it's too late."

"Jess, I'm sorry, but I couldn't talk then. There wasn't time."

"There wasn't time to explain to your fiancée why you were checking yourself out of the hospital for a spontaneous cross-country drive with a brother whom, until a few months ago you never talked to? By the way – the doctor called. You don't have a brain tumor."

Sam swallowed hard. This was going to take some work.

"Jess –"

"What's wrong with your arm?" she interrupted. She sounded angry at the arm.

"Uh. It's … nothing. I just … dislocated my shoulder. They gave me a sling to keep from moving it around too much."

"You _just_ dislocated your shoulder. Less than a week after you _just_ collapsed for no good reason."

Not good. She only pulled out the italics when she was really, really mad.

"Jess –"

"No, Sam. You don't get to _Jess_ me on this. I get a call from your brother saying he's at the hospital with you and that maybe you have a brain tumor and then four hours later you're telling me that, _no_ your brother and father don't work for the CIA like you _told_ me. They hunt ghosts. _Ghosts_, Sam. And then you're off to feakin' Michigan because you had a _dream_ of a ghost there? No, Sam. You definitely don't get to _Jess_ me on this."

She punctuated the speech by balling up a silk shift and slam dunking it into the suitcase. Another bad sign, Sam thought. Jess normally had a lot of respect for silk dresses. She glared up at him, and somehow Sam felt like the shorter one.

"Jess, I'm sor –"

"_Sorry_?" she cut him off again. "Sorry for what? For _lying_ to me in the first place? For deciding to _tell_ me that you lied in the first place while you're in the hospital bed suffering from hallucinations? For leaving the hospital bed where your hallucinations are being treated to go on a _road_ _trip_? For dismissing my concerns like a stubborn _prat_ when I suggested that maybe you _shouldn't_ _go_ on a road trip while suffering from hallucinations? For acting like _I_ was the crazy one for voicing those concerns? Sorry for what, _Sam_?"

"Uh – yes?" He tried for cute.

Bad idea. He just thought she was mad before. Her eyes went wide with rage. She shoved him back and slammed the closet door after him.

"Just get the fuck out, Sam."

And that really got his attention. Jess never swore. Not even little pretend curse words like hell. She said it wasn't ladylike – wasn't classy. And besides, she said, she could never pull it off.

But she sure pulled it off that time.

He stumbled away from the closet door. Stared at it dully for a minute, then turned and walked back out of the apartment. He sat down on the top step of the stairs leading up to the apartment.

He was just wishing he hadn't told Dean 45 minutes when he heard his brother's voice.

"What 're you doing out here?" Dean called, starting up the stairs.

"She's … uh … pretty mad."

"Well, yeah." He sat down next to Sam.

"No, I mean, really, really mad."

Dean just looked at him, shrugged his incomprehension.

"She told me to go away."

"And you just went?"

"Well … yeah?"

"Come on, Sam, don't you know anything? Girls don't actually want you to go away when they say leave. They want you to fight for them. It's these stupid movies they watch. Fills their heads with all sorts of bad ideas."

"No, Dean. I mean it. She was furious." Really, really furious, he repeated to himself miserably.

"What did you expect? You left her crying in the hospital."

"What! You're the one who said we had to go!"

"We did have to go. You know that, and I know that. But you can't expect her to know that. She was worried."

So Sam had gathered. But the knowledge didn't really seem to be helping.

"Listen. Just go back in there and apologize –"

"I _tried_ to apologize," Sam interrupted. "She didn't want to hear it." He knew he sounded like he was about 9 years old, but he didn't feel much like an adult right now.

"So what? You're just going to leave it at that? Dude – seriously. She's out of your league. You're not going to find anyone better."

Sam sulked.

"Go in there and apologize. Tell her everything. Start from the beginning. Tell her you're sorry you scared her, but someone's life depended on it. Tell her about Alice Miller – you saved her life back there. Chicks love that crap. It'll be like you're a cowboy or something."

Sam shot Dean a doubtful glance, and Dean rolled his eyes.

"Dude, trust me. I've got this apology thing down to an art form."

The doubt melted into a scowl. Sam really didn't think his situation could be compared to the times Dean had to apologize for forgetting a girl's name.

Dean must have read that in his expression. He returned the scowl and gave Sam a shove. "Just go, man."

Sam heaved a sigh and pulled himself to his feet. He glared at the door and once again squared his shoulders for battle.

When he went back in, the closet door was still closed, but he could hear Jessica sniffling quietly inside. It made him feel like a total ass.

"Jess," he called softly.

"Sam –" she started, but there was less heat and more sadness in it this time.

He sat down with his back to the door. "Jess, I'm sorry. I really am. I'm so sorry I made you worry. I hated to do that to you. I wouldn't have if I had seen any way around it, I swear."

Nothing. At least she wasn't interrupting this time.

"You know how, when I told you about Dad and Dean working for the CIA, I said they really made a difference? Helped people?"

"Yeah?" It was quiet and watery, but it was something, at least.

"All that part is true. Jess – I had to go. There was something out there hurting people. Killing people. And there was a chance something I had seen could help stop it."

There was a pause and then the door clicked open. And then there was Jess, eyes redder than ever, looking at him like she maybe didn't hate him after all.

"Did you?"

He nodded. She looked away and then back at him.

"Is it going to happen again?" He almost couldn't hear her, she said it so softly, full of fear.

"I don't know," he whispered back, figuring that now was a time for honesty if ever there was one. "I … I hope not. We think maybe it was connected to the guy who was doing the killing and he's dead now … But I don't know for sure."

"What happened to your arm?" This time she did not sound angry at the arm. Just concerned.

Sam thought it a good time to try and lighten the mood. He gave her a crooked smile. "I fell out of a tree."

She snorted, but crawled over to him and tucked herself beneath his arm. They scooted backward together to lean against the bed.

"You're not off the hook," she warned.

"No?" he asked, a little worried.

"Not by a long shot. You owe me."

"OK." He could live with that.

They were still sitting like that 20 minutes later when they heard the front door open.

"Sam?" Dean called out. "You still alive? She didn't kill you did she?"

Sam closed his eyes and chuckled softly. "Not yet," he called back.

Dean appeared at the bedroom door and surveyed the scene with mock disgust.

"Dude. You're such a girl." He shook his head. "I need a beer."

And off he went.


	25. Chapter 25

A month later, Dean was back in California. He still hadn't been able to get John to answer phone calls, so he was finding his own hunts for now. Which at least made it easier when he needed to make a trip to Palo Alto for a tuxedo fitting.

He and Sam had just finished doing just that when it happened again. Sam had gone a whole month without another vision, and Dean had started to hope that Sam was right – that it had just been connected to Max and that now that Max was gone, they'd gone, too.

But here he was in the middle of a sunny California street, trying to drag his brother the remaining few feet to the car so that he wouldn't have to lay him down on the hot concrete.

About that time, his phone started ringing.

He cursed and ignored it, maneuvering Sam in his grasp so that he could open the Impala's back door. He dropped his brother onto the bench seat and started calling his name, slapping his cheeks, wishing he knew how to bring him back. He got his phone out, ready to call 911 again if he needed to. He didn't think he'd need to, but last time Sam had had a vision, he'd dislocated his shoulder. Dean wasn't going to take any chances.

About the time his phone signaled that he had a new voice mail, Sam came to. Thrashing and screaming.

Screaming Jess's name.

His sudden bolt into the upright position knocked Dean back and the phone from Dean's hand. Dean absently glanced down at the display, meaning to grab it and get back to Sam.

He did a double take when he saw what it said.

Dad.


	26. Chapter 26

Sam was chanting a steady chorus of "come on come on come on."

Dean wanted to say something comforting, something calming. But he couldn't remember anything that fit that bill. Instead the voice in his head was harmonizing: move move move.

They were all of a mile and a half from the apartment now, but it had already taken _years_ to get that close. Traffic wasn't really any heavier than usual, but for some reason they were all driving so _slow_. Dean had never seen any group of people drive so _slow_. And Sam's foot was bouncing up and down so _fast_. Dean tried to work out if the vibration he was feeling was just the normal car buzz or if Sam was actually jiggling the whole car. He should be able to remember what the car usually felt like, but he couldn't. He couldn't remember anything. Except how to get back to Sam's apartment.

And that night. That night. That night.

'Please please please.' The mantra in his head varied on occasion. 'No no no.'

Sam slammed his cell phone closed in disgust and then immediately opened it again and started his chant back up. Dean turned a corner. Just three-quarters of a mile to go now. Straight shot. If only the slowest jalopy in California would GET OUT OF HIS WAY.

'Move move move.'

Jess, Sam had said. On the ceiling. Fire everywhere. Blood. Jess. Jess. Jess.

'Move move move.'

Half a mile. Almost there.

This was not happening again. It was not. It was not. Not to Jess. Not to Sam. It was not. It was not. Whatever issues Dean might have had six months ago with Sam getting married, he'd gotten over them when Jess howled over Sam's baby pictures. When she'd smeared snot all over Dean's shirt in that hospital waiting room. When she'd nonchalantly asked him to explain the truth about zombies during a late-night viewing of _Shaun of the Dead_. When she'd baked chocolate chip cookies just because he was coming to town. Corny as it sounded, he'd figured out somewhere along the way that he wasn't losing Sam – he was gaining Jess. And she might not have been who he would have married, but – well, it would have been a problem if she was, right?

She was perfect for Sam.

So this was not happening. Not not _not_ happening.

It just wasn't.

There. There was the complex. Finally.

The Impala squealed to a stop in the fire lane. Sam jumped out and started running.

"Sam!" Dean yelled after him.

Sam didn't even look back.

"Sam! Weapons!"

He glanced back over his shoulder, and his gait faltered. He took another look at the apartment then switched directions, full tilt back toward the car. Dean was already digging through the trunk by the time he got there.

Without speaking, Dean threw Sam a shotgun and collected one of his own. He didn't know what good they could do, if any. But it was better than empty handed. Demons couldn't pass over salt lines, so a barrel full of rock salt couldn't hurt – or rather Dean hoped it would hurt.

In 20 seconds flat, they were both pounding toward the stairs.

Up the stairs.

Through the door.

Where everything was … normal.

"Jess!" Sam bellowed.

"Sam?" It was distant and a little muffled. But it didn't sound like someone who was hanging from a ceiling.

Then they heard water being cut off. A little stumbling around. And a door opening. Jess poked a dripping head out of the bathroom. She looked concerned – which probably had something to do with Sam's tone – but not at all frightened.

"Sam?"

"Jess!" Sam repeated, a tinge of relief swirling into the panic in his voice, but certainly not overpowering it. He looked around wildly. "We've got to go."

Jess looked from Sam to Dean and back, taking in their guns and their heaving chests. Her expression clearly communicated 'huh?'

"We've got to go," Sam repeated. "Now. Come on."

He moved determinedly toward a storage closet and pulled out his duffle bag and Jess's suitcase. Then he stalked toward the bedroom. Dean moved to begin collecting his stuff.

Jess just stood there looking confused.

"Sam –" she started.

"Jess, come on. We've got to go!"

"Sam!" She finally lost her patience. "What are you talking about? Go where? What's going on?"

"We don't have time to explain," Sam called from the bedroom, where a lot of knocking around seemed to be going on. There was a sudden crash, and Dean guessed the bedside lamp had been sacrificed to the god of speed. "Just come on."

"I have soap in my hair, Sam. I can't just come on. We've talked about this, Sweetie. I need at least an hour's notice."

She was trying to be funny, but there was a wide edge of nervousness in the words. The banging in the bedroom stopped, and Sam reappeared, wide eyed and out of breath. Dean had seen that look before on plenty of others. He'd always thought of it as haunted.

"Jess." A little less terror, more composure this time. "I'm sorry, but we really don't have time to explain. I don't know if we even have time for you to rinse your hair. Really. We've got to get out of here. I'll pack. You get dressed. And then we're leaving."

She looked at him for a minute, not even blinking. Then she nodded shakily and ducked back into the bathroom without a word. The water came back on, but it was off again in less than a minute. By the time Sam emerged again from the bedroom, a bag in each hand and the gun under his arm, Jess was coming out. Her hair was pulled back in a sopping, tangled knot; her face was shiny and makeup free; and her t-shirt and jeans were wet in places. But she looked resolute.

She looked at Sam, who nodded at her then looked at Dean. Dean swallowed hard and felt the weight of responsibility settle in. But he mirrored Sam's nod and said "OK. Let's go." Then turned toward the door.

Three minutes later, they were on the road.

There were no games this time. Not much talking, period. Sam tried to explain what had happened to Jess, but Dean wasn't convinced she understood. Not really. But who would? How could it not sound crazy?

So she stayed quiet, sandwiched between them in the front seat, leaning into Sam.

And Sam stayed quiet, sometimes watching Jess not talk, sending intermittent looks that said 'Do something' to Dean. And sometimes staring out the window with that haunted look on his face again.

And Dean stayed quiet trying to think of what to do. All he could come up with was drive.

So he drove.

And he drove.

And he drove.

And by 2 a.m., they were far away from that apartment and that town, even that state. And hopefully, that reality.

He pulled up to the Cowboy Motel in Albuquerque and cut the engine. He looked blearily over at his passengers. Sam looked about as weary as he felt. But Jess … Jess looked like the world was falling down around her.

"This good?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded indifferently. Jess looked like she might be sick. But she pulled her lip between her teeth and nodded anyway. Dean climbed out of the car and headed for the office.

Where he realized he wasn't sure what the procedure was. He and Sam would normally share a room. But … now there was Jess. Would she want to share a bed with Sam in front of Dean? Or would she want her own bed? He thought about two separate rooms – but then there was the whole demon thing to worry about. Splitting up didn't seem like the best of ideas. He could get a rollaway – then they could all have their own bed … But this didn't actually look like the kind of joint that would have rollaways.

Which suddenly made him remember the look on Jess's face. She probably wasn't used to sleeping in the kind of joint that wouldn't have rollaways.

'Shit,' he thought. This was going to be hard.

He took in the gummy carpet and the overflowing ashtray. Then he thought about Sam and Jess's apartment. It was cheap and kind of crappy. But it was clean and … smelled good. Which he was pretty sure couldn't be attributed to Sam.

He sighed and headed back to the car. Sam and Jess were standing next to it, bags in hand. He opened up the door and grunted his intention that they follow his lead before sliding in. They did, but they looked confused.

"Uh. Dean?" Sam asked. "Something wrong?"

Dean shrugged. "Just thought we'd go somewhere else," he said. He almost missed the little relieved squeak Jess gave.

Half an hour later, they were carrying their bags into a perfectly respectable Holiday Inn. Dean was cursing under his breath about the cost of the two adjoining rooms – adjoining being another amenity that the Cowboy Motel wouldn't have afforded – but Jess's shoulders were no longer quite so stiff.

The peace didn't last for long, though.

"Sam!"

Dean cracked an eye at the open connecting door, but just one. It wasn't a there's-a-monster-here-to-get-me sort of "Sam!" It was more like a you've-really-screwed-up-mister sort of "Sam!"

"Mm?" Sam mumbled from where he was sprawled on the bed.

"Where is my underwear?"

"Uh. Huh?" A little more awake now.

"My underwear, Sam. Where is my underwear?"

"Jess, wha—"

"You didn't pack me any underwear, Sam! You packed me seven T-shirts, two _negligees_, two _sweaters_, ONE pair of pants, a _silk dress_ and NO UNDERWEAR!"

"Uh …"

There was some stomping, and then the bathroom door slammed. Dean grimaced. Yeah. This was going to be a lot harder than when it was just him and Sam.

OOO

Despite the bone-deep exhaustion he was feeling, Dean had trouble sleeping that night. He had no idea what to do. They could keep running. But. Was it possible to out run a demon? And really, how long could he expect Jess to put up with that? She didn't really understand the danger they were talking about. And to be honest, how long would Sam put up with that? Right now he was freaked out, but sooner or later …

There was nothing for it. He had to call Dad. Sam wouldn't like it, but Dean couldn't see another way. He had no idea what to do. They needed Dad. Sam … well, Sam wanted Jess safe. And Dean would bet that he'd even put up with Dad if that was what it took to keep her so.

Dean screwed his eyes shut. Now it was just a matter of getting John to answer his freakin' phone. How many voicemails had Dean left him now?

Wait.

Voicemail.

He'd forgotten. In all the rush, all the panic …

Dad had left him a voicemail.

He shot to his feet and across the room to where he'd draped his jacket on the back of a chair. He fished the phone out of his pocket and clumsily punched in the access code.

"Dean," his Dad's voice said. "Listen, I'm sorry I haven't been answering your calls. But, son, something is starting to happen. I think it's serious. I need to try to figure out what's going on, and I need you to stay away. Stop calling me. It's important. Go to Sammy. Keep an eye on him. But be very careful – I … I think we're all in danger. I'll be in touch when it's safe."

Click.


	27. Chapter 27

John looked at his phone as it heralded the arrival of the fifth voice mail in as many minutes. He frowned. He'd hoped Dean would take it better. Thought maybe he had when the entire day after he left his message passed without a word from Dean. But the calls had started at 4 a.m., and had been increasing in frequency for the past six hours. John guessed Dean had started out waiting to see if John would return the call, but after about 12 hours, had given up on that and decided to go for the shock-and-awe treatment instead.

While John had felt a little guilty at first, he now was a lot irritated. Dean should know better than this. John didn't give orders for the fun of it. He gave them because they needed to be followed.

And that's why he didn't feel even a pang of remorse when he turned the phone off.

He hadn't listened to a single message.


	28. Chapter 28

Note: Despite the fact that I am from the Wild Wild West, I own no guns. So I had to look up shotguns to see if my belief that they held only two bullets was real or not. It turns out some do, according to the Remington Website, but they're the "break action" (see how I use my big new words?) kind, which are mostly favored by people shooting in competitions for their antique feel. That didn't seem like the sort of thing Sam and Dean would want, but it looked like what Dean was cleaning in Nightmare. So I decided to go with that. If you think I'm wrong, let me know.

Chapter 28

Dean had listened to the voicemail with astonishment, but not alarm – that didn't come until later. He had left his first message at around 3 a.m. and then gone to sleep believing that once John heard what was going on, he'd abandon this ridiculous shit bag of a plan.

Then came 4:30 a.m., when Sam woke them all up screaming.

"NO!"

From the way Dean shot up, gasping for breath, you'd think he was the one who'd had the dream. He ran the few steps to the other room to find Sam practically wrapped around a wide-eyed Jess.

"Sam? Sweetie?" she choked out around his death grip.

It seemed to snap Sam out of his panic. He let up on the bear hug and pulled away.

"We've got to go." His eyes swung around to lock on Dean. Even in the little bit of streetlight filtering into the room, Dean could see the whites glimmering. "He's coming."

Dean had guessed as much, but he sure hated to hear it. He could feel knots tightening between his shoulder blades. But he gave a quick nod and hurried back to start gathering up his things. He assumed the bedspring creaks he heard behind him meant Sam and Jess were doing the same. He was glad Jess wasn't protesting this time.

While he packed, he left another message.

"Dad, you've got to start answering your phone." He sighed. "We're leaving Albuquerque. Sam … Sam had another dream. We're all OK. But – I don't know where to go next, Dad, where to go where it can't find us. Call me Dad. As soon as you get this."

He was stuffing his toothbrush into his bag as he thumbed the phone off. He was zipping the bag up when he heard the knock on Sam and Jessica's door.

Everything froze. It had been quiet before, just hurried footsteps and the rustle of bags being packed. But this … this was a totally different kind of quiet. A pin drop would have seemed a ruckus in comparison.

"Room service," a voice announced from outside. It dripped sarcasm. Dean looked at the darkened window and wondered what it would take to break it. It wasn't the kind that opened, and even if it did they were on the second floor. But if he was right about what he thought was outside, they might want to take their chances.

Dean grabbed his still-loaded shotgun and hurried to the other room. Sam was pushing down on Jess's shoulders, trying to communicate without words that he wanted her to squeeze down beneath the bed. Her hand was over her mouth, probably literally holding back the sobs Dean could see shaking her shoulders. But she indicated that she understood and began trying to squirm under.

The knock came again, a little louder this time.

"Boys," whoever was outside admonished. The voice was young, but the tone was old. "I'm waiting."

Jess was pulling her foot in after her when the door burst open.

A pimply boy who couldn't have been long out of high school stood on the other side. When he had checked the trio in, he'd looked bored to tears and minutes from falling asleep. Now his eyes were alert. And yellow.

Sam went scrambling after his gun, and the boy didn't move to stop him. Instead, he threw an easy smile in Dean's direction, dropped his gaze to the floor in front of him and cocked a curious eyebrow at the white line along the entryway. Dean found his apparent lack of concern discomfiting.

The boy looked back up with a big grin, then took a step back into the hallway. Without taking his eyes off Dean's, he thrust both hands out to his sides. The movement was accompanied by loud bangs coming from both ends of the hallway, and followed by a sudden breeze.

'The doors,' he thought, bewildered. 'He opened the doors.' And then it clicked. Open doors at either end of the long hall would create a pretty strong wind tunnel in the blustery mountain city – strong enough to easily erode the thick lines of salt he'd carefully drawn earlier.

Dean grabbed Sam's elbow and pulled him back toward the only other way out. He started banging the butt of the shotgun against the thick glass, hoping to lead by example. He almost wished the guns were loaded with something other than rock salt – maybe they could have shot it out. As it was, they weren't doing much more than scratching it.

And then it was too late to do any more.

Dean knew the moment the demon stepped into the room. Unlike the temperature dips associated with hauntings, the demon seemed to be radiating the heat of hell. Some part of his soul, or whatever it was demons had, must still have been smoldering, because there was a faint scent of burning matches in the air. Sulfur is odorless until it burns.

Dean turned and raised his gun. But he couldn't fire. Not yet. Between them, he and Sam had only four shots before they had to reload. They needed to save them for the actual attack – which Dean was sure was soon to come.

So he fired off his mouth instead.

"Can we help you?" he drawled, with as much boredom as he could muster.

The demon smiled again. "I sure hope so," he said. And Dean wondered how there could be so much menace in such a squeaky voice.

"What do you want?" Sam asked, probably trying to sound brave – but failing. Dean decided they must not offer a trash talking demons course at Stanford.

The demon eyed Sam speculatively. "Good to see you again, Sammy. You've sure grown up since the last time we met. I hear congratulations are in order."

With a wave of his hand, the room's bed slid to the side, revealing Jessica huddled underneath. A flick of his wrist and she was up and flying toward the wall. She hit with a shriek, and her eyes fell on Sam, pleading. Sam gave a choked off little moan in response. The knots in Dean's shoulders started lassoing his stomach.

"Please," Sam gasped. And the demon's smile grew wider.

"Please what?"

"Please … just tell us what you want."

"Pretty please with sugar on top?" Jess's body began to inch up the wall slowly. The smile really and truly could only be described as evil now.

"Just … please," Sam begged. The 'I'll do anything' was implied, if not exactly said.

The demon shrugged, suddenly all indifference. "All right. All you had to do was ask." Jess slid back to the floor. It might have been a good thing, but who really believed that?

"I need to speak with your father," the demon said.

Dean had had no idea what to expect. He'd never been able to imagine why the demon had chosen his family to mess with, and he certainly couldn't guess what had brought it back. So, with no expectations, it should have been impossible to surprise him. But it apparently wasn't.

'Dad?' he thought. 'What the …' But out loud: "What, do we look like his secretaries? I'm afraid Dad's unavailable right now. He isn't taking calls."

"I know," the demon said smugly. "But I think I have an idea for getting his attention."

Suddenly the guns went flying out of Sam and Dean's hands and they found themselves pinned against the window. It was like there was an steel band across Dean's chest, holding him in place and restricting his breathing.

Still, he was able to choke another taunt out.

"Acting out like this … will only get you … negative attention."

Then he groaned as the steel band tightened.

"I had planned," the demon began in a nonchalant, professorial tone, "to use Jessie here to get my message to John." He strolled over to Jess and leaned in close with his shark's smile. Dean could hear Sam grunting as he struggled against the demon's hold. "She's been getting in the way anyway."

"In the way of what?" Sam somehow managed to grind out.

"Oh no need to worry about that right now, Sammy. That'll come later. Right now I just need to talk to your dad. But let's face it, the whole burning blonde thing is really only effective when it's a surprise. So I'm afraid I'm going to have to branch out a little. I usually don't bother with the whole hostage thing – it's just a little over the top, don't you think? But I think I've come up with a new spin on it."

Dean was willing to bet he wasn't going to like this new spin. "Yeah … well … why mess with … a classic?" he gasped.

The demon rolled his eyes, but paired it with an indulgent smile, as though Dean were a mischievous toddler testing his boundaries.

"Don't worry, Dean. Just tell John this: Little boys shouldn't play with guns. I'm sure he'll make the right decision."

Then, before Dean had time to question that, the boy threw back his head and wrenched his jaw wide open. A black cloud spurted out and roiled up toward the ceiling. But once it got there, it changed directions – and headed straight for Sam.

"SAM!" Dean called. But there was nothing Sam could do. The mist surrounded him and seemed to suck in through his eyes and nose and mouth. Just seconds later, Sam relaxed as whatever was holding him against the window let go. He straightened and turned to Dean wearing the demon's smile.

"I'll be in touch, Dean," he said in a voice that was and somehow wasn't Sam's. "Don't forget to give Dad the message."

And with that, he backed up a few steps, got a running start and slammed into the window. It shattered, and Sam went flying through.

Dean only just caught himself before falling backward. But at least he was able to move again.

"SAM!" he screamed as his brother ran down the street, leaving behind a trail of blood.


	29. Chapter 29

Note: For the purposes of this story, Bobby's junk yard is in Texas. Since Jim Beaver is from Texas, I figure this fits with Bobby's accent. As far as I can find, the show's never actually said where he lives.

Chapter 29

Dean stood still.

That's all he did. He didn't jump out the window after his brother. He didn't turn and race down the stairs. He hardly even breathed for awhile.

He just stood still. And silently panicked.

He couldn't think of any words – not even curse words. The best he could do was 'no': 'This just … no. No. It … no.'

He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, hear the blood rushing in his ears. His face was all prickly, and his skin on his neck seemed to be choking him. And hot. He just felt hot all over.

He couldn't think of what he was supposed to be doing. He was pretty sure that jumping out the window after Sammy wasn't a good idea, though he couldn't for the life of him think of why. And turning to run down the stairs would mean taking his eyes off the corner Sam had just disappeared around – which he couldn't begin to imagine doing.

So he just stood still.

A groan behind him was the first thing that managed to filter through the fuzz surrounding him. Reluctantly, he dragged his eyes away from the hole that used to be a window and looked around.

It took a second for him to place the man pushing himself up off the floor.

'Oh yeah,' his mind eventually supplied. 'The desk manager.' The one who had brought the demon to them.

Dean didn't move to help him up.

The boy's mouth moved, but Dean couldn't really hear him over the white noise in his head. Couldn't have come up with appropriate answers, anyway. So he just stared. Eventually the boy gave up and backed out of the room, eyes as wide as saucers. Dean couldn't muster up even a little concern that he might tell someone what happened or go get help. When he left, Dean turned back to the window.

Or he started to. But mid turn, he saw something else that managed to break through.

Jess.

She was sitting in about the same place she had fallen earlier, legs drawn up to her chest and an expression that looked as blank as Dean felt on her face.

She didn't seem to be blinking.

Dean swallowed hard and walked slowly over to her.

"Jess?" he whispered.

It didn't get any response, so he crouched down and tried to get in her sight line.

"Jess?" he repeated.

Her eyes slowly tracked to his, but she still didn't blink them. He wished she would – the uninterrupted view of the terror there was too much.

"Jess?" he tried again.

Then she blinked, and he wished she hadn't. The tears were there when she opened her eyes.

"Sam," she sobbed.

Dean just nodded his agreement, still unable to string thoughts – much less, words – together coherently.

"I don't …" she started, sounding bewildered.

Dean nodded again.

Jess's gaze slid past him to the broken window. The reflection of the broken glass in her eyes seemed appropriate. "What do we do?" she whispered.

And suddenly Dean wasn't numb anymore. Suddenly every nerve in his body was thrumming with pent up energy, and he couldn't believe that he was still sitting there.

He shot up.

"Stay here," he commanded, probably unnecessarily. Jess didn't look like she had it in her to move any time soon.

Then he was running out the door, through the hall, down the stairs and out into the parking lot below their rooms. Despite the dark, it couldn't have been easier to find the trail – just look for the big pile of bloody broken glass and follow the red smears down the street. But, somewhat unsurprisingly, it didn't take him far. Just after rounding the corner where he'd last seen Sam, it stopped.

Now that Dean's mental facilities were functioning again, he was able to reason that the demon had probably decided four wheels would be more efficient than two feet. And he wanted to kick himself for taking so long to get out there – then again, no, kicking was far too gentle. It would make a big difference to know what kind of car Sam was in.

But he didn't know. And he didn't have anymore time to waste thinking about it.

Jess's question rang in his mind: What do we do?

Dean closed his eyes and tried to come up with an answer. His instincts said run and fight the thing that took his brother – but where? And for that matter, how? The thing that took his brother was _in_ his brother. And it was IT. The thing they'd spent more than two decades hunting. The thing that killed his mother.

It was too much. His mind was about one thought away from overloading.

Which, of course, is when it suddenly decided to remember that he'd left Jessica alone. About half an hour after Sam had apparently had a vision of her burning on the ceiling. Sure the demon seemed to be gone, but …

He turned and sprinted back the way he came. And almost collapsed with relief when he found her exactly where he left her, still looking wholly stunned, but otherwise unharmed.

Still, they'd stayed there too long. Even if the demon didn't come back, that broken window was going to be noticed once the sun came up. They needed to be long gone by then.

Dean crossed the room to where Jess was huddled, crouched down in front of her again and put what he hoped were steadying hands on her shoulders.

"Jess?" he said in the surest voice he could manage. "Jess, we need to go. I need you to finish packing. Can you do that?"

Her eyes met his on the first try that time, but they were still distant and uncomprehending.

"Jess, I know you're scared, but we've got to get out of here, OK?"

She gave a small nod, but he wasn't sure that it wasn't just an automatic response to his OK.

"Jess?"

"Yeah." It was more of an exhalation than an actual word, but Dean decided it would do. He got to his feet and then bent down to pull her to hers. She was shivering.

"OK. I'm just going to go and get my bag out of the other room. I'll only be a second. Why don't you finished getting dressed and pack up anything that's left. OK?"

Another shaky nod.

Dean walked slowly out of the room checking back over his shoulder a few times. Jess seemed to be moving in the direction of some discarded jeans, and he hoped that meant she wasn't as out of it as she seemed.

After he'd collected his bag, he decided to give her a minute to finish dressing. He slumped against the wall and screwed his eyes shut.

Shit. What was he going to do about her? He couldn't bring her along – Sam would kill him. And he couldn't just put her on a bus – again, Sam would kill him. Besides, neither was safe. But what other option was there?

Dammit, why couldn't he come up with a single plan?

He needed help.

Dean pulled his phone out of his pocket, hoping against hope that he'd somehow missed a call somewhere in all the … whatever you would call it when your brother is kidnapped by a demon. But no. Nothing.

He checked to see that Jess was still packing, flipped it open and speed dialed his dad's number.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

"This is John Winchester. I can't answer right now. If you need help, leave a message."

Dean bit back a growl.

"Dad. Answer your damn phone. It's got Sammy. The demon. It came to the hotel and took him. And it said to give you a message – something about not playing with guns. What does that mean? Where are you? I need you to be here. Call me. Now."

Down in the car a few minutes later, Dean was still trying to think of what to do. He needed somewhere to go. Somewhere Jessica would be reasonably safe. Pastor Jim's would have been his first choice, but Blue Earth was a good 1,200 miles away. There was Caleb, but last he heard, Caleb was in Lincoln – about 900 miles away. It was too far. He didn't know what direction the demon went, so he didn't want to go a long way in the wrong one.

Unfortunately, Albuquerque was in the middle of nowhere. The whole freakin' state of New Mexico was in the middle of no where.

Except.

Bobby. Bobby was in Amarillo. Amarillo was only four hours away. Three if he hurried. It was still farther than he would have liked, but if worst came to worst, he could probably even cut it down to two. And Bobby could take care of Jess.

If he would. Bobby and John hadn't parted on the best of terms, if Dean remembered correctly. Still. It would have to do.

He turned to Jess.

"Jess? Can you do something for me?"

She nodded, eyes still wide but a little less distant.

"Here. Take my phone. I want you to call speed dial No. 1 every five minutes. It's my dad's number. He'll know what to do, but he's not answering his phone. Just keep calling, OK? I want to talk to him as soon as he does answer. Can you do that?"

"Yeah," she said. She seemed relieved to have a job. She immediately started dialing. Dean noticed that she didn't bother waiting the five minutes before trying again. She was even leaving voice mails.

"Mr. Winchester, this is Jessica Moore," she said, earnestly polite even in a crisis. "Sam's fiancée. I'm with Dean, and we need you to call us. Please. It's very important."

He started the engine.

"Mr. Winchester, it's Jessica Moore again. Please call us. I'm on Dean's cell phone."

Now he had three hours to come up with a plan.

"Mr. Winchester …"


	30. Chapter 30

The sun still hadn't made it to high noon when Dean pulled into Amarillo. And Jess still hadn't gotten an answer from John. In fact, somewhere around the Texas border, the calls had started going directly to voicemail. If Dean hadn't had other things to worry about, he might have been able to decide if that infuriated or terrified him.

Jess, he could tell, it terrified.

"Do you," she began, but trailed off. Then she took a deep breath, steeling herself before asking a question she wasn't sure she wanted the answer to, and tried again. "Do you think something … happened? To your dad?"

Dean could feel her looking at him, but chose to keep his eyes on the scenery outside – or rather, lack thereof. It was comforting in a way, the flat, bare fields in every direction. Nowhere for anything to hide.

"No," he said in a strong voice that hopefully belied the fact that he was deciding on the answer as he said it. "I mean, the demon obviously wanted to send Dad a message – why bother with us if he could have delivered it himself?"

If Jess found the comfort Dean had intended in this, she didn't show it. She just joined him in his study of the landscape.

Then, in a whisper: "This is real, isn't it?"

Dean didn't answer right away – wasn't sure what answer she was looking for. Jess turned back to him, and this time he automatically turned to meet her gaze before he had time to stop himself. She looked horrible – red all over, eyes, nose, cheeks. Lips chewed to tatters. And pitiful. Pleading and lost.

It hit Dean, then, for the first time. Sam didn't just love Jess – Jess loved Sam. Really loved him. Maybe even as much as Dean did. He had known since that night at the hospital that, yeah, she loved him. But this was different. This time he saw in her eyes something he recognized. He turned back to the road and scrubbed a hand over his face, kind of wishing he hadn't looked. But kind of not.

"Yeah," he answered, wearily. "It is."

"I … I mean, I did believe Sam when he … told me about all this. But …"

"Yeah. I know."

"What's going to happen?"

"I … don't know."

"I'm not getting married next week, am I?"

Dean followed the progress of a passing car across his window, taking advantage of the opportunity to hide his face from her. He took a deep, shaky breath and wished he had time to stop and find something to hit.

"Don't say that," he admonished. "Sam's going to be fine. I'm going to find him, and he's going to be fine, and you're getting married next week."

He saw her nod once out of the corner of his eye, but when he chanced a look at her, he could tell it had been a pity nod. She looked anything but convinced.

That had been 45 minutes ago, and Jess hadn't really said anything since, though she continued to dial John's number every few minutes. When Dean pulled into Bobby's junk yard, she frowned at him and broke the silence.

"Where are we?" she said, as though it was just occurring to her that they had, in fact, had a destination.

"A friend of my Dad's," Dean said. "Name's Bobby. He's a little rough around the edges, but you'll be safe here while I go find Sam."

"What?" Now she sounded even more confused and a little angry, which confused Dean. He pulled to a stop next to a hollowed-out hunk of metal that must have been Bobby's newest acquisition. A few guard dogs scampered curiously toward the Impala.

"What, what?"

"You're leaving me here?" Her voice had taken on a panicked quality.

"Jess, it's OK, you'll be as safe with Bobby as you'll be anywhere. I promise."

"No, Dean, please." The tears were back. "Please … don't leave me. I … need to go with you. I … I need to find Sam, too. Please."

"Jess," Dean tried cajoling. "You saw what that thing can do. Sam would want you far away. He'd want to know you were safe."

"Well Sam's not here." Desperation was creeping in now. "When he's back I'll do what he wants. Please, Dean. Please don't leave me here. I want to help."

"How are you going to help?" Dean said incredulously. His own panic was beginning to make itself known, and the words sounded harsher than he'd intended. Jess blanched, and he had reached out to put a comforting hand on her arm when a loud rap sounded on the window behind him.

"This fella botherin' you, ma'am?" came a thick Texan drawl. Dean turned to see Bobby's tobacco-stained grin outside his door.

OOO

"And your daddy isn't answerin' his phone?" Bobby shook his head, handing Dean one of two silver flasks he had dug up from … somewhere. "Son of a bitch."

"Yeah, well …" Dean couldn't quite bring himself to agree with that assessment, though right now he couldn't entirely discount it. "What is this? Holy water?" he said, by way of a subject change.

"That one is," Bobby confirmed with a smirk. Then he held up the other. "This un's whiskey." He took a swig and offered Dean, then Jessica one. Dean accepted; Jess declined with a wide-eyed shake of her head. Dean came as close to a laugh as he was going to get that day.

"Bobby, thanks," he said. "Thanks for everything ... To tell you the truth, I wasn't sure if we should come."

"Nonsense," Bobby scoffed. "You need help."

"Yeah, but last time we saw you, you threatened to blast Dad full of buckshot. You cocked the shotgun and everything."

"Yeah, well. What can I say? John just has that effect on people. Doesn't have a thing to do with getting' your brother back."

Dean almost sighed out loud in relief. It felt so good to have someone else on hand who knew what to do.

"So – do you have any idea what's going on? This demon … We've been looking for it for almost 23 years. Why is it suddenly turning up? And what does it want with Dad?"

Bobby pursed his lips and cocked his head to the side and frowned in contemplation – a picture of redneck concentration. Looks were deceiving, however. Dean knew Bobby to be well versed in everything supernatural.

"Tell me again what that message was?" he said, thoughtfully.

"He said, 'Little boys shouldn't play with guns.' And that he was sure Dad would 'make the right decision.'"

Bobby's frown deepened.

"You know," he started, "few weeks back, I heard tale that old Danny Elkins had died."

Dean's blank stare must have told Bobby the name wasn't ringing any bells.

"He was an old friend of your daddy's. Heard he ran into some vampires."

"Vampires?" Jess squeaked, and Dean had to agree.

"I thought they didn't exist," he said. It wasn't a squeak, but his eyebrows were trying to crawl into his hairline.

Bobby snorted. "Boy, everything exists. You should know that by now."

Dean scowled and shrugged impatiently. "Well, what's that got to do with the demon, anyway?"

Bobby went back to thinking.

"Nothing 'cept … well, see, Elkins was a vampire hunter. Lived longer than most of 'em, too. And I used to hear stories 'bout how that was 'cause he had this gun. Special gun, with special bullets. Made by Samuel Colt back about the time ol' Davey Crocket was fightin' in the Alamo. Supposedly, Colt made it for a hunter, if ya know what I mean. And supposedly, it can kill damn near anything. Even things already dead."

Dean took a second to absorb this, then shook his head in frustration. It was a nice story, but it wasn't getting him any closer to finding Sam.

"So?" he groused.

"_So_ … Lotta things out there wouldn't take too kindly to your daddy gettin' his hands on that there gun. I'm thinkin' maybe Elkins left it to your daddy when he died. And maybe that demon of yours ain't too happy 'bout it."

Dean didn't say anything as he processed this, but Jess piped up, joining the conversation for the first time.

"You can kill demons?"

Bobby looked over at her in surprise. "Well, yeah, sugar. Anything'll die, if you know how to kill it."

"And Mr. Winchester has a gun that will do it?"

Bobby snorted again. "I don't know about _Mr_. Winchester, but if I know John … yeah. He's got it."

"And that's what the demon wants? If we give it to him, he'll give us back Sam?" She sounded unbearably hopeful, and all traces of humor vanished from Bobby's face.

"I doubt it's gonna' be that easy, sweetheart."

"Why not?" There were tears in Jess's voice. Dean could relate.

Bobby looked at her with pity in his eyes, then turned to Dean.

"You know," he said, "normal year, I hear of, say three demonic possessions. Maybe four tops."

Dean shrugged, indicating for him to go on.

"This year? I've heard of 27 so far. You get what I'm sayin'? Somethin's comin'. Somethin' big. And you kids are smack in the middle of it."

Dean couldn't suppress the shiver that ran up his spine at Bobby's words.

OOO

It took everything Dean had not to run. He wanted to be out there looking for Sam. But there was no knowing where Sam was. There wasn't even any knowing where Dad was. And Bobby said finding John was the key to getting Sam back. So Dean stayed put and waited for his dad to call.

It took _two_ _days_. If Dean hadn't needed him, he might not have answered the call. He wasn't sure that was something he would ever be able to forgive. It was two days of pacing. Two days of stomach-churning worry – about Sam, about Dad, about what to do if his Dad didn't call, about what it would mean if his Dad didn't call. Two days of trying not to notice the red-rimmed holes Jess's eyes had become. Two days of hardly being able to think straight. Two nights of staring into the darkness, unable to _stop_ thinking.

Two days of all that. And then the phone finally rang.


	31. Chapter 31

John almost – almost – deleted the voicemails without listening to them.

When he turned his phone back on there were 15 waiting for him, and that's as many as his voicemail box would hold. If his phone had been the sort to show the number of calls missed while the phone was off, he was reasonably sure it would have been several times that.

He was tired and grumpy and not inclined to listen to Dean complain about being left out of the loop. He was the father, dammit, and he would damn well decide what was and wasn't safe for his son to be involved in.

But something made him pause with his finger on the button when it came time to delete. Even if it was whining, at least Dean was calling – which was more than Sam had done in the past four years. Truth be told – not that he was planning to tell the truth, but if he was – John felt a little guilty about the fight. Not so much that he thought he should have handled it differently, but … well, it would be nice to hear Dean's voice, hear that _he_ a least wanted to be involved.

So he took the polite, computer-generated voice up on its prompt to "listen to your messages," instead of going with the "delete your messages," option. He wouldn't listen to all of them or anything. Just one. Or maybe two.

Except that's not the way it worked out. When the fifteenth beep signaled they had come to an end, John was ready to trade his soul for a bigger voicemail box.

Only a few were from Dean: "Dad, it's coming, we're leaving." "Dad, why aren't you answering?" "Dad, it's got Sammy."

But if those few words weren't chilling enough, the fear in Dean's voice was. It was almost a relief when Jessica took over the message-leaving duties with her less-familiar version of panic: "Mr. Winchester, please call us." "Mr. Winchester, please call us." "Mr. Winchester, please call us."

Almost.

After a minute or so of nothing, the computer-generated voice grew impatient with John's lack of response and switched to a honking beep that reminded him to hang up. With that accomplished, he could think of nothing to do except sit completely still and try to avoid a meltdown.

It had Sam.

It had Sam.

It. Had. Sam.

Oh God.

And it was John's fault. It knew about the Colt. That had to be what the message meant. But how did it know? He hadn't told a soul. He'd only had it for four days.

And Sammy had been missing two of them.

The demon went after Sam because of John, and John hadn't even bothered to pick up his phone when it rang.

And speaking of not answering phones – Dean must be out of his mind by now. John knew he should call him right away.

He looked down at the phone in his hand and contemplated flipping it open. Suddenly, though, his thumb didn't seem up to the job. It felt weak and boneless, and the phone weighed about as much as his conscience.

How could he call Dean? His son had been trying to call him for two days to tell him that his other son had been kidnapped by a demon. And John had turned his phone off. Had thought about deleting the messages – the messages begging for help. For a simple phone call, even.

What could he possibly say to Dean?

If Dean had said where he was going, John would just go. Show up and pretend like it had taken him that long to get there. But Dean hadn't said. They'd been in Albuquerque, but he'd said they were leaving. If John was going to guess, he'd bet that Dean headed for Bobby's. But John couldn't afford to waste time on a bad guess.

He also couldn't afford to waste time thinking about this.

He stared at the phone for a moment more, took a deep breath and flipped it open. A few button punches and he was listening to the ring in his right ear with a quickly escalating sense of trepidation. But not for long – Dean answered after the first ring.

"Dad!" he yelled. "Is that you? God, it'd better be you."

"It's me," John answered with a wince.

"Where have you been? Are you OK? What took you so long?"

'I'm sorry' was on the tip of John's tongue, but it somehow got all twisted up on the way out of his mouth. "Never mind that," he said instead. "Where are you?"

It took Dean a moment to swallow that, but in the end he fell in line just like John knew he would – he just had to ignore the slightly bitter tone of Dean's answers.

"I'm at Bobby's."

"That girl still with you?"

"Her name's Jess. And yes."

"You're both OK?"

There was an angry little grunt on the other end in response.

"Dean."

" … Yeah, _Dad_, we're _fine_."

John clenched his teeth in an effort to ignore the accusation behind those words. "Well stay there. I'll come and get you."

"Wait – Dad. What's going on? What does this thing want? Is it the gun? The Colt?"

John startled at the mention of the gun. "How did you know about that?" he growled.

"Bobby guessed it after I told him about the demon's message," Dean said. "He said he'd always heard that Elkins guy had a gun that'd kill anything, and that he wouldn't be surprised if he'd left it to you. And he said if a demon was going to be interested in a gun it'd be that one."

"Dammit Dean, what are you doing telling others our business? You shouldn't have involved Bobby at all."

"Shouldn't have involved him? Dad – you haven't answered your phone in 53 hours! I needed to get Jess some place safe, and Bobby was closest. And I didn't know if you were ever going to call – I had no idea what the demon's message was about, and I needed help. Which you weren't offering. I wouldn't have had to involve Bobby if you had picked up your GOD-DAMNED PHONE!"

Dean had never spoken to John like that before, and with everything else that John was worrying about … well, it was the last straw. The camel's back snapped and took John's temper with it.

"Boy, you'd better watch your mouth," John hissed, any and all traces of remorse entirely forgotten. "You may be 26, but you are still my son, and I will not be spoken to like that."

"Yeah, well, Sam's your son, too!" Dean spat, and John actually flinched. The remorse came flooding back.

He took a deep breath. "Dean," he tried to placate. But Dean was done listening.

"No Dad! I've seen you show more concern for complete strangers than you're showing for Sam. And that demon took him to get to _you_!"

This time John recognized Dean's insolence for what it was – fear. Dean had been waiting around for two days, wondering what was happening to his brother and unable to do anything about it.

And he didn't even know what John knew.

John shook his head to clear that thought – he knew well and good that if he let himself start thinking about _that_, he wouldn't be able to think about anything else.

"Dean," John tried again, then paused to make sure Dean wasn't going to jump back in. He didn't, and John took that as permission to go on. "It's not like that, son. Of course I'm worried … But I'd rather get moving than talk about how worried I am. So I'll say it again: You sit tight, and I'll come get you. Then we'll find Sam together."

Dean didn't say anything for a few moments, and John just knew he was trying to work up the nerve to ask why John hadn't answered the phone. But John also knew that he wouldn't be able to. John was surprised Dean had gotten as far as he had in his tirade, but he was pretty sure it was over for now.

And if Dean didn't ask, John wasn't volunteering the answer.

"Fine," Dean said, finally.

"All right, then. It'll take me a few hours, but I'm not too far away. I'll be there before the day's over."

"All right," Dean said, sounding a little more like himself.

"All right," John repeated, and prepared to hang up.

"Dad – wait," Dean said for the second time. But this time it was less of a command and more of a plea.

"Yeah?"

"What … What are we going to do?"

John couldn't remember Dean ever sounding so young. He breathed deeply and thought about answering honestly: I don't know. But that wasn't the way John did things. So instead he went with an old standard.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "We'll talk about it when I get there."

"Don't _worry about it_?" Dean echoed incredulously.

"Dean," John warned.

Dean sighed. "OK," he said. "I'll see you in a few hours." And he hung up without waiting for a reply.

John flipped his own phone shut and let out his own sigh. What _were_ they going to do? He sank down onto the bed.

But before he had time to think of an answer – which, to be fair could have just as easily taken hours as minutes – his phone rang again. He flipped it open without a glance, thinking Dean must have decided he wanted a better answer after all.

"Dean," he groaned. "What?"

He bolted upright at the response he got.

"Wrong son, John."

"Sammy?" John clutched the phone, wondering if the way his shaking hand was causing the phone to rattle against his ear was audible on the other side of the line.

"In a manner of speaking," something not quite Sam drawled in Sam's voice. "He's … in here somewhere."

"I swear to God, if you hurt him –"

"Oh god. Could you be any more cliché? John. Please. You and I both know very well that I'm going to hurt him, and there's nothing you or God can do about it.

"But that's for later. Right now he's mostly fine. And if you'll kindly hand over the Colt, he'll probably stay that way."

John swallowed what seemed like an entire stomach's worth of bile.

"Why would I give up my only way of stopping you from hurting him in the future to stop you from hurting him now?" he bluffed, damning the tremor in his voice.

"Well, for one, because that's the way you humans are: optimistic to a fault. Despite the fact that you have the means to kill me, to save potentially thousands of lives, you won't use it. It's all that, 'a bird in the hand' crap.

"But if that doesn't do it for you, consider this: I've just pulled my car up to a charming little scrap yard in North Texas."

John's heart had surely stopped. He couldn't find the breath to voice another threat.

"I'll see you in a few hours … Dad."


	32. Chapter 32

Dean flipped his phone shut and somehow restrained himself from throwing it across the room. He took a moment to try and calm down, but when that didn't work, he marched over to the corner where he'd stashed his stuff and started double checking the weapons.

Again.

He'd never really unpacked, so there was nothing else he needed to do to get ready for John's arrival. Even this wasn't exactly something he needed to do to get ready – actually, this made his seventh "double check" of the weapons. But at least it kept his hands busy. Made him feel like he was doing something.

Or that was the idea, anyway. Turned out to be a bust. He didn't feel like he was "doing something."

He _wasn't_ doing something. He wasn't doing _anything_.

And he hated it.

The last two days had been, he thought, the hardest of his life. He couldn't think about anything except finding Sam – didn't want to think about anything except finding Sam. But all that _thinking_ was getting him nowhere because he couldn't actually _think_ of anything to _do_ about finding Sam. Couldn't think of anything to do, period. Couldn't do anything except think.

And imagine. And, God, he wished he could stop imagining.

Every time he got to a certain place in his thoughts, there was Sammy smiling back at him with those yellow eyes. Taking a running leap through a plate-glass window, two stories up. Limping away from him.

Dean's mind eagerly filled in the blank of what came next, and he hoped with everything in him that the demon's imagination wasn't as good as his. He did his best to keep pushing the images out of his head – if he thought about it at all, he'd never think about anything else.

Not that he had much else to think about, he mumbled bitterly to himself.

He had hoped, childishly, he realized now, that getting ahold of John would fix everything. That all he had to do was let his dad know that there was a problem, and John would come up with a solution.

But he hadn't heard a solution in John's voice.

How could he expect Dean to _sit tight_ and wait when his brother was out there with that … thing? It'd been more than two days. What kind of father responds to that news with instructions to "sit tight?" What kind of brother follows them?

At that thought he snapped – not for the first time in the past two days – and made up his mind to leave. For once Dean was going to ignore John's orders. He'd meet up with John when John got here. If he was close enough. If not, John would just have to come to him. He was done waiting around for instructions while his brother was …

He shook his head, not wanting to start that reel over again.

Instead he stood, slung the weapons bag over his shoulder, turned and headed for the door.

Bobby intercepted him at the couch.

"Dean, come on. What are you doing?"

If Bobby sounded a little impatient, Dean couldn't really blame him – this was the fourth time they'd played out this little drama today. And they'd only just crossed over into p.m.

Then again, Dean was feeling a little impatient himself.

"You know what I'm doing, Bobby," he growled.

"Yeah, I guess I do," Bobby conceded. "But I thought we agreed that was a pretty dumb-ass thing to do."

"Changed my mind," Dean said through tight lips while trying to maneuver past the older man. "I shouldn't have let you talk me into waiting to begin with, and I'm not going to let you do it again."

"Dean, stop," Bobby said, moving to block the path to the door. "How many times do we have to go over this before you cotton on? There ain't nothin' you can do without that gun. You got nowhere to go if you leave, nowhere to start looking. If you stay, that demon's gonna' bring your brother right to you."

Dean knew the words made sense, but he couldn't seem to care. He stopped, looked Bobby in the eye and tried to make him understand.

"He's been alone with that thing for two days, Bobby, and it's going to be hours before Dad can get here. I … I can't just sit here any more. I've got to do something."

Bobby looked sympathetic but shook his head. "I know it feels like you're abandoning him, man, but what else can you do?"

"I could go back to Albuquerque. Try and pick up the trail. Meet the demon on my own terms, rather than waiting for him to set them. It's what I should have done two days ago. But better late than never." He started making for the door again.

Bobby opened his mouth to argue, but Jess's voice interrupted from the doorway.

"Wait," she called out. "I'm going with you."

Dean bit back a curse. "Jess – " he started.

"Dean, you're not leaving me here," she insisted, thus rounding out the cast for the group's now hourly performance of "Who Is/Is Not Leaving to Find Sam."

"Yes, I am," Dean sighed. This tended to be the point where he backed down and agreed to wait for John.

"Dean – " But it was Dean's turn to interrupt.

"Jess, we've talked about this," he said flatly. "It's not safe. Sam would want me to make sure you're safe."

"If it's safe enough for you, it's safe enough for me," she said, her chin jutting out stubbornly.

'You'd think she was already a Winchester,' Dean mused to himself. Out loud, though, he only said, "How do you figure?"

"Look, Dean," she said, demands suddenly melting into pleas. "I'm not saying I'm not scared. I am. I'm scared to death. But … It's Sam. … I love him, too."

Dean almost gave in. After all, he wasn't usually one to deny a pretty face. But then he remembered that this wasn't just any pretty face. And he remembered the look on Sam's face, driving back to the apartment after that vision, when they weren't sure what they were going to find when they got there.

And brothers trumped pretty faces. So …

"No," he said, and slid past Bobby toward the door.

"Dean," they called after him, in unison. But by then he had his hand on the knob. He turned it without looking back.

He had to stop, however, when he slung it open and something fell in on him. He looked down at his feet in confusion. It wasn't until he heard Jess's cry of "Sam!" that he realized what he was looking at.

It took a few beats for Dean to process the sight. At first all he could do was look at his brother, sprawled across the doorway, unmoving. His face, neck, arms – any exposed skin – was bloodied with dozens of little nicks that must have come from the window. And there was evidence that it didn't stop there.

Flecks of blood highlighted small rips in the thin white T-shirt he was wearing, as well. And although the jeans seemed to have protected Sam's legs from such smaller cuts, Dean figured the 3-inch-wide shard of glass he could see sticking up through the thigh of the right pant leg hurt more than the rest combined. The jeans were a dark wash, so it was hard to tell for sure, but it looked like a large area around the splinter was darker than it was supposed to be.

Jess was at his feet before Dean even managed to break out of his stupor, caressing Sam's cheek, taking his pulse and calling his name. Dean was bending to help when Bobby stopped him.

"Wait," he said. "Jess, Dean, get back."

"What?" Jess exclaimed.

"Get back," he repeated. He was easing toward one of the many guns stashed around the house.

"Bobby," Dean started, confused.

"Dean, think about it." And suddenly Dean realized exactly what the problem was. It must have shown on his face. "Now," Bobby said more forcefully. "Get away from him."

Dean did as he was told, grabbing Jess by the arm and pulling him with her.

"Dean, what – " Jess started, but evidently couldn't come up with a way to finish. Instead she struggled to pull herself out of his grasp.

"It's still in him, Jess."

"What? No it's not. Look at him. He's hurt. Dean …" She was begging and it seem to physically hurt Dean not to give in. Sam had yet to move or open his eyes, and if Dean had thought the past two days were hard, they were nothing compared to the past two minutes.

"Sweetheart, you gotta think," Bobby commanded from across the room. "How would Sam know where to find y'all? How would he get here? Why didn't the dogs let us know he was comin'?"

Jess stilled at that, and thinking her convinced, Dean loosened his grip. But at that moment, Sam moaned. It was apparently more than Jess's resolve could handle. She twisted away from Dean and went flying back to him.

Bobby cocked his gun. But nothing happened.

"Sam?" Jess crooned. "Sam? Can you hear me?"

Sam moaned again, and Dean began to doubt himself. Maybe …

"Sam, sweetie – wake up," Jess said, and Dean could hear the tears in her voice again.

Sam's lashes began to flutter, and Dean moved in closer. "Sam?" he said.

Suddenly Sam's eyes flew open – and they were yellow.

And everyone else went flying across the room.


	33. Chapter 33

Note: Thanks to Mazza for her advance help on this. And sorry to all of you I told to expect this Monday. I don't really have any excuse except that I came across a lot of good fanfiction to read and couldn't convince myself to write instead. Thanks for your patience.

Chapter 33

Being held hostage by a demon? Actually pretty boring.

A malicious chuckle echoed through Sam's mind at that thought, and he tensed, waiting to see if anything else was coming. Nothing did, so he relaxed and tried to keep himself from wishing something had.

Not that he could wish it out loud, of course. Or physically tense or relax. Or physically do anything. But the mental manifestation of himself that Sam had conjured up did all that. And did it all with slightly larger muscles and slightly better-behaved hair, actually. Sam had a slightly over-positive self image, it seemed.

Anyway.

Being held hostage in his own body was not what Sam had expected – and yes, he knew it was odd that he had built up expectations about that sort of thing. Not as odd as the fact that he'd never researched it, though.

He'd never thought to ask any of the people his dad had exorcised what it had been like. There hadn't been many – possessions were rare. But they'd come across a few, so you'd think the subject would have come up at some point.

'Of all the times for my curiosity to fail me,' Sam thought, triggering another of those creepy chuckles.

If he knew how to stop thinking out loud, he'd do it. It was only fair for that buffer, cooler Sam to be mute after all. Not that he was jealous. Of his imaginary version of himself.

Anyway.

He'd always imagined – or maybe the better word would be hoped – that when possessed the person was unaware of it. Maybe locked in some room inside their head, where they couldn't see what was going on outside. That way they wouldn't have to be an audience to the horrible ways that their body betrayed them while possessed. Wouldn't have to know that, yes, their hands were capable of squeezing the breath out of their wife, or jabbing a knife through their next-door neighbor's spine.

But no. There was no mental dungeon, no oblivion. It was more like … driver's ed. Those student driver cars? Where the teacher in the passenger seat has his own steering wheel and breaks and can override the commands you're giving on the driver's side? Like that. Only, your body is the car. You can see everything just fine, but you've been overridden. You don't have any control over your hands or feet or mouth or anything.

It was maddening. Really, literally maddening. As in, Sam was worried that he was actually going to go mad. But he knew it could be worse. Because so far, it was only maddening because the demon hadn't done anything. And that meant Sam hadn't done anything, and not doing anything was boring. But when the demon started doing things … that's when Sam figured he'd really be driven all the way around the bend.

He gave a few more mental pushes in his head, but stopped when the pain returned. The pain, he thought, was actually a good sign. He figured it meant it was possible to push the demon out of his mind if he could just find the right muscle – why else would it try to stop him? But so far that knowledge hadn't gotten him very far.

Besides not being in control of his body, Sam also didn't have a lot of awareness of it. For instance, he couldn't feel his foot pressing on the gas pedal or that big piece of glass sticking out of his thigh.

Most of the time.

When he started flexing his mental muscles, however, the awareness tended to return. And much as Sam would have liked to think it meant he was making some kind of progress, he suspected that it was deliberate. He didn't think he'd found the right muscle yet, and the demon just let him feel his body to stop him from trying.

Which was regrettably effective. The last time he'd tried to ignore the pain and keep pressing, he'd passed out. Obviously, he didn't really pass out – his body kept going without him. But apparently you don't need a body to pass out.

And yeah, when he was aware of it, he was in a lot of pain. All the cuts and nicks were one thing – he could have stood that. But many of them still had glass embedded in them. Even two days later, the palms of his hand were leaving bloody smears on the steering wheel of the stolen car the demon was driving. (Sam tried not to think about what that DNA evidence could mean for his legal career.) And he suspected infection was beginning to set in.

Then there was the blood loss. The little cuts hadn't been too bad, but the piece in his leg had soaked his jeans all the way down his leg and into his shoe, besides what he left behind wherever he went. It wasn't life-threatening or anything, but it wasn't good.

And speaking of legs – yeah. The one he'd landed on when he'd jumped out the window was bending sans joint in one place, but the demon kept walking on it anyway. And that hurt pretty bad.

Mix in the complete lack of food – and more importantly, water – and Sam wasn't in any real hurry to start feeling his body again. In fact, he wondered if there was any way to signal to Dean or his Dad that he'd like to be exorcised in a hospital, please, and have a hypodermic of morphine on hand, if you don't mind.

And probably a bottle of water. The record for going without water was 18 days, but there were plenty of people who didn't last nearly that long.

Did you burn more calories if you had two people in your head at once? Did it make a difference if one was a demon? And was it possible for his body to just drop out from under the demon? All things he was wishing he'd done research on at some point.

There was that chuckle again.

He wished he knew what the damn thing was up to. For the past two days, they'd basically just sat around. Mostly in a deserted alley. It must have some other way of keeping up with what's going on, because it'd pretty much sat Sam and his body in a corner and waited. For what, Sam didn't know. But whatever it was must have happened a few hours ago, because he'd suddenly stood up, walked to a nearby car and headed for the highway.

Sam's best guess was that they were either going to Amarillo or Oklahoma City. They were on I-40, which Sam knew like the back of his hand – it crossed America from one end to the other and was one of John's standard thoroughfares. Amarillo was looming in the distance. After that, it was Oklahoma City, assuming they didn't stop at a bump in the road or turn off and head for Dallas. If not Oklahoma, then they could keep going on to Memphis or Nashville – or even on to the Atlantic Ocean. For all he knew, the demon was channeling John Steinbeck, planning to write "Travels with Sammy: In Search of Hell in America." And it could do it without ever even changing lanes.

Well. No. They'd have to get off at some point. The demon might be able to keep Sam going without gas, but the stolen Pontiac was going to demand some sustenance in another couple hundred miles.

So. Something to look forward to.

Except – no. They were exiting. Why did this look familiar?

A few more turns, 10 more miles, and Sam knew. He'd been here before. It was several years ago, and it had ended somewhat badly, but this was Bobby Singer's junk yard. And that was Dean's Impala sitting out there in front of the house.

Suddenly Sam was wishing for boring again. The demon laughed again as it picked up Sam's cell phone.

Sam didn't know how the demon knew John's number – Sam had deleted it from his phone's memory after Saginaw. But God, he wouldn't have if he'd known "I swear to God, if you hurt him," could sound so good. So much like help being on the way. He'd hardly had time to enjoy it, though, before his mental image of himself was frowning in confusion … "You and I both know?" "Hurting him in the future?" And what the heck was the colt?

But then the demon was thumbing the phone off, shouldering the car door open and heading across the yard. Guard dogs approached and fell dead without so much as a glance in their direction. Sam started pushing frantically against his mental bindings. Pain or not, he couldn't let the thing get through that door.

The pain did return, and with a vengeance. But Mental Image Sam gritted his abnormally straight white teeth and kept pushing through it. Like concentrating really hard or trying to pop the pressure in your ears when you've got a head cold. Just pushed and didn't think about the grinding in his leg or the sandpaper in his throat.

Not thinking about it turned out _not_ to be an effective pain management strategy, however, and didn't do much of anything to hold back the darkness. Sam wasn't aware of anything again until suddenly he was falling backward without the luxury of being able to throw his hands out to catch himself. Since he was back to not feeling pain, it didn't hurt, but he let out a reflexive mental 'oof' anyway.

What had happened? The demon had closed his eyes, so he had no idea where he was or how he had ended up on his back. Had Dean and Bobby gotten the best of the demon? If so … why was he still offline?

"Sam!"

The sound of Jess's voice would have stolen his breath if he'd been in charge of his own breathing. She was here. He didn't know what he had expected, where Dean could have taken her, but oh God. 'Stay back, stay back!' he yelled helplessly inside his head. Then, 'Yes! Yes!' when he heard Bobby's "Wait."

He felt the moan rumbling up in his chest and knew for sure: It was a trap.

_He_ was a trap.

He started pushing with all his might and the pain was worse than ever and it didn't do any good because there were Jess's hands on his face.

And then yellow-tinted sight returned, and he was wishing for the darkness.

The demon rolled him over and picked him up, made a big show of giving an enormous, exaggerated stretch – reaching for the ceiling and arching Sam's back. It started to yawn theatrically and brought a hand up to cover his mouth, but stopped and wrinkled his nose in distaste at the bloody mess of it. Wiped it on Sam's jeans instead.

Then it turned its attention and Sam's gaze on the three people leaning unnaturally against the far wall.

"Dean. Jess," Sam heard his own voice say. But the grin he could hear in it was not his. "Fancy meeting you here. And Mr. Singer – I don't believe I've had the pleasure of being formally introduced, but I certainly know your work. Forgive me, I'd shake your hand, but …" It waved a red-stained palm in their direction.

"What are you doing here?" Dean growled. And Sam was impressed by the amount of steel he'd managed to inject into the words, considering he obviously had only slightly more control over his body than Sam.

The view tilted as the demon cocked Sam's head to the side.

"Aw, Dean. Come on, now, don't be like that. I thought you were worried – getting ready to come find me. Thought I'd save you the trouble."

Dean gave a sharkish grin. "I call bullshit," he drawled. Then grimaced as whatever force was holding him against the wall seemed to tighten. It jolted Sam out of the horrified trance he'd been in and reminded him to start pushing again.

The now-familiar chuckle came again, but this time it wasn't just inside Sam's head.

"All right," it said. "I'll give you that one. I just thought it might be prudent to give myself a little bit of set up time before John got here with the Colt."

As far as he could tell, Sam wasn't even tickling the demon. Meanwhile, he was adding what felt like a mashed up brain to his list of bumps and bruises. And the well-coifed head of his mental image was starting to spin again.

"See," the demon continued, "despite what I told you on Monday, I'm actually not quite convinced that Johnny _will_ make the right choice. Seems he's got some … concerns about the future. And since I've got some plans for Sammy, I'm kind of limited in how far I can press the matter on this end."

Sam couldn't help but stop pushing and start listening at that.

"But hey, let's give John the benefit of the doubt. I'm sure that with a little extra persuasion, he'll hand that gun of his right on over. It's just a matter of finding all the right pressure points."

There was a faint pop and Dean's face went all taut and tense. He didn't make a sound, but Sam could tell by the way he was holding his jaw that it wasn't easy.

"There's one," the demon said. "And there are … How many ribs does the human body have? Right. … 23 more where that came from."

Mental Image Sam's face went white as a ghost under his California tan. 'No, no, no,' he said under his breath. 'Please no.' He could not watch Dean's torture at his hands.

He redoubled his efforts at pushing the demon out. The demon's gaze turned upward and lost focus, as though it was turning its attention inside. Then it turned back to Dean.

"Your brother's in here, you know," it said, with that grin in its voice again. "Begging for your life." It sighed. "It would be sweet if it wasn't so damned annoying. But I think I know a way to get him to shut up."

And then Jess began to inch up the wall.

"Oh yeah," the demon purred. "I think we have some time for some fun before Johnny gets here."


	34. Chapter 34

Note: Again, many many thanks to Mazza for an incredibly helpful advance read.

Chapter 34

John didn't bother with subtlety when he got to Bobby's. He marched up the driveway and kicked through the front door with the Colt held up and steady.

But he hadn't really thought through what he would be pointing it at.

It was _Sam_. And yes, he had yellow eyes, but he also had cuts and bruises. It had been a long time since John had kissed boo-boos better, a long time, even, since he had offered any sympathy for them, but the urge was still there. Buried deep down somewhere. Knowing what was coming, it couldn't help but well up.

'Suck it up, soldier," he tried to tell himself. He swallowed hard and adjusted his grip. This was no time to be getting sentimental. Whatever it looked like, that was a demon. That should be all he needed to know.

John had had five hours to think through this, and he thought he'd come to the only possible conclusion: He had to stop this thing tonight. Before it could go any further. This was the first time he'd ever been able to get close to it, and that certainly wasn't something he could take the credit for. He'd been chasing rumors and grasping at straws since Saginaw and had never gotten to anywhere anything like in time. So even if the demon meant to let them all walk out of here, he couldn't assume he'd have another shot at it.

And he hoped that didn't mean the shot he'd have to take would be aimed at his youngest son, but … he was prepared for that eventuality. He'd been over it and over it in his head, and he'd convinced himself that was preferable to the demon using Sam in the army he was building up – especially if it meant the demon would never get a chance to build up an army at all.

Still, that was to be his very last resort. He just wished his list of first resorts was a little longer; the fact that the demon seemed less concerned than amused by John's dramatic entrance suggested he'd need them.

"John," he said, smirking at him from behind Sam's eyes. "So glad you could make it. Took you long enough, though. We ran out of ribs _ages_ ago."

The speech was punctuated by a muffled crack and a truncated grunt from Dean, who John now realized wasn't just standing against the wall.

"That was a proximal phalanx. The third we've broken tonight. Did you know there are 19 bones in each hand?"

Almost against his will, John's eyes were pulled to the hand in question. It was swollen to at least twice its normal size, and trembling hard enough that it was obvious from across the room.

"After we finished with the ribs – don't worry, we didn't want his chest to collapse before you got here, so we only broke every other one in two places, rather than all of them in one – we got a little bored."

It showed on Dean's face. John could tell he was trying – and doing a pretty good job at it – to be stoic, but the set of his jaw gave him away. Dean tried to catch his eye, but John's gaze skittered to the side. He knew if he looked, he'd see pain and desperation and a declaration of 'I'm fine, just get Sam.'

He wouldn't be able to do this if he was looking at Dean.

"Let them go." John said, deciding to cut straight to the chase.

"Or you'll what?" it sneered.

John blinked, caught off guard for a second. It could have been any of the millions of times Sam had threatened to disobey him or challenged his authority. But though there were times when John would have bet otherwise, that didn't make it any easier when John pulled back the hammer.

The demon's smirk spread into an all out grin.

"Ah. Going straight to the bottom line, are we? That's no way to negotiate, John. You don't open your bidding with your son's life, not over a broken hand. It'll make poor Sammy feel unloved."

"I want you out of my son. However it has to happen."

"Dad?" Dean choked out, sounding confused and apprehensive.

"Give me the gun, and it's a done deal."

"I can't do that."

There was another crack and John saw Dean flinch slightly out of the corner of his eye.

"I think you can John. Dean's got a good hand and a half left."

A muscle in John's jaw twitched, and he had to concentrate on not breaking eye contact. The demon's grin grew.

"Then there's poor Bobby over there – we've been working on bursting his blood vessels one at a time. There are 40 billion of those, so it's a little bit like Chinese water torture, only with pain."

"All that means is that I should kill you sooner rather than later."

"So you're just going to shoot your own son, John? That's pretty hard core. But if you want my advice, the only way to kill a son is to do it with your own hands, skin to skin. Less impersonal than with a gun or a knife. Trust me, I know. A boy'll really get the message that way."

"This has nothing to do with Sam. Sam knows I love him."

"You really think so? Because I've kinda got the inside track on Sammy right now, and I'm not quite so sure."

John's resolve faltered a bit at that. For the first time – maybe ever – he wished he had been a bit more forthcoming with his sons. To be able to stand to do this, he had to believe that if Sam knew what the alternative was, he would agree that this was the only way.

The demon must have sensed it.

"I could kill you with a flick of my wrist," it said, and its voice had lost all traces of Sam. "Hell, I wouldn't even need to flick my wrist. You'd just be dead, and where would that leave your boys? Give me the gun, John, and we'll call it a day."

John swallowed, rolled his shoulders and tried to reclaim his focus. "I don't know, I'm pretty quick on the draw. You willing to take that chance, that I wouldn't be able to squeeze off a shot first?"

"You say you're going to kill me anyway. Why shouldn't I go down swingin'? And let me remind you: I've got more than one wrist. I'd take out you and Dean, you'd take out Sam. Then there wouldn't be any Winchesters left to fuck things up."

"Dad – " Dean whispered, and there was no doubt in John's mind that it was a plea – '_Just give him the gun, Dad._' John just pursed his lips and tightened his grip like he wasn't about to give in, like he hadn't heard a thing the demon had said, like he didn't believe every word of it.

He shifted just a tiny bit, and suddenly he felt the brush of something wet on his wrist. He flicked his eyes to his arm but didn't see anything. Then it came again, and he realized that it was coming from above him. A leak of some sort, except that it wasn't raining outside – Bobby's house was a pile of crap, but even he didn't have a roof that leaked in the sunshine.

He couldn't help it. His gaze was drawn upward before he could stop himself. What he saw was a nightmare he'd been having for almost a quarter of a century.

It was a girl, long blond hair fanned out behind her, one hand clutching at the ceiling like she was trying to hold on, and the other covering her mouth like she was trying to hold her insides in. And she was crying. Sobbing, really. That was the leak.

"Oh – forgive me," the demon said. Even coming from Sammy's mouth, his voice was somehow everything you'd imagine a demon would sound like. All hiss and smoke and sulfur. "I forgot you two haven't met. Jess, this is John Winchester. John, this is your future daughter-in-law – that is, if you don't shoot her fiancé."

But if the demon thought it could guilt John into backing down on Jess's behalf, it wasn't as clever as it liked to think. All John could see when he looked at Jess was Mary.

Turned out, that was all the courage he needed.

John turned back to the demon, and there must have been something in his eyes, because by the time John pulled the trigger several things were happening at once.

John heard Dean scream something that was probably 'No!' though he didn't really hear it over the roaring in his ears and couldn't say for sure. At the same time, Jess fell from the ceiling on top of John, and Dean and Bobby hit their knees when whatever was holding them against the wall suddenly let go. For a split second, a stream of black smoke shot out of Sam's mouth. But it wasn't quick enough, and before much could get out, it was all sucked back in.

Then there were about three seconds of complete, stunned silence.

Dean was the first to break it.

"No no no no no," he murmured, trying to push himself up and getting a gasp of pain for his trouble. He wrapped the useless left hand around his chest and tried again, right arm shaking from the effort and lips completely white. John watched, frozen, as he cried "Agh!" and stumbled the few steps to where Sam had collapsed.

"Sam? Sam? Oh, God. Sam?"

John pushed himself up as well, but didn't rush over to his son. He wanted to look away, but couldn't quite manage to do it. He watched as Dean's hand fluttered back and forth between Sam's neck and his midsection, obviously unable to decide whether to try and find a pulse or put pressure on the wound with his one good hand. He ultimately picked staunching any blood flow there might be, but called desperately for reinforcements: "Bobby!"

Bobby hurried over and put a hand to Sam's neck. "He's got a pulse!" he cried, and John flinched. He took a few steps closer for a better look.

Jess's fall must have thrown off his aim. He'd been aiming for the heart, but it was Sam's belly that was a mangled mess. Those antique bullets left enormous ragged holes.

"He's all torn up," Dean said. His voice sounded like he'd been chewing on glass. "We've got to get him to the hospital." He actually made to bend over and try and scoop Sam up, but Bobby stopped him and claimed the job for himself. Just as he was moving to lift Sam, however, the boy's eyes shot open, and his hand flailed before grabbing onto Dean's jacket.

"Dean," he moaned in a horrible, painful rasp. The eyes were mercifully not yellow, but the pupils seemed to have swallowed up the irises, and they were as desperate as anything John had ever seen.

"It's still in me."


	35. Chapter 35

Note: Thanks, again, to Mazza, although I suspect she is still not quite happy with it. Regardless, she was very patient.

Also, I guess we now know that Bobby lives in South Dakota, not Texas. But I'm leaving him where he is for convenience's sake. On the other hand, courtesy of Born Under a Bad Sign, we also know that demons can apparently come back from Hell in less than a month. I find that implausible, but who am I to argue? Besides, it's much more compelling than the 20 years I'd figured on.

Chapter 35

"_It's still in me."_

Those words were almost as painful to hear as the gunshot had been. Dean could feel them reverberate inside of him in the same way. For a second, it was all he could do to try not to lose it right there. But another cry of pain from Sam reminded him that he had to do better than that.

"Dean, go," he panted. "Get everyone … out of here. … Now. I'm trying to hold it in but – agh – I don't know how long I can."

If Dean had had time for theatrics, his jaw would have dropped.

"What? No. Sam. Just … No. We'll figure something out."

To be honest, though, Dean had no clue what. He was running on pure faith right now. He needed time to think, to come up with a plan – and after two days of nothing to do, suddenly there was no time.

"We'll, uh," Dean started, hissing as he accidentally shifted and jarred his ribs. "We'll uh … we'll have to exorcise it. We'll get him out of you and then go to the hospital."

But before he even finished the sentence, Sam was choking on another scream. "No," he ground out. The word was thick with agony. "There's not enough time, Dean. You've got to leave now. Get Jess out of here." His entire body tensed against an unseen assault, and Dean felt the scream, even if Sam didn't let it out.

Jess. God. Dean had forgotten all about her. He reluctantly peeled his eyes away from Sam and carefully turned to look for her. She was crouching white faced on the floor where she must have fallen, looking terrified, but otherwise healthy.

"Jess is OK, Sam; she'll be fine. Just hold on, we'll hurry." He looked up again, this time at Bobby, who was still hovering on Sam's other side. "Bobby, we need a book, a ritual …"

He was cut off by another scream from Sam.

"Please, Dean. Please. Go. I … I don't think he can use me again with the bullet still in me, but if he gets into someone else, he's going to kill you. You and Jess. Everyone. Just – agh – please go. Please."

The last please just bled with pain, and it did what 12 broken ribs and 5 broken fingers hadn't been able to. Dean finally fell over the edge. His head dropped down to his chest, and he let go of the tears that had been threatening since he'd seen the bloody hole in his brother.

"Dean," Bobby said urgently, reeling Dean back into the moment. "If we can just get him into the other room, under the Devil's Trap, he can let go. Then the demon will be trapped, and we can exorcise him. Sam won't have to hold him still."

The Devil's Trap. Bobby had explained the symbol earlier in the week, and the words were like a lifeline to Dean. He clutched at them, sniffing and swiping quickly at his wet cheeks, trying to pull himself together. "Yeah," he said, nodding shakily. "Yeah, let's go. Hurry."

He again made to help move Sam, but Bobby again stopped him.

"Dean," Bobby barked. "Boy, you try to pick him and you'll fall over dead. John – get over here and help me, dammit."

John took a step in their direction, and the protest was out before Dean could stop it.

"No."

John froze. His face, for once, gave his feelings away, and Dean had to look down.

He'd been able to avoid looking at his father until that point, and when he finally did he was hit with a flood of emotions he didn't have time to sort through. The one that swam to the top, however, was easy enough to identify. It was a foreign feeling, not trusting John. It left a sour taste in his mouth.

"Dean … " Bobby began, just a hint of reproach in the word.

But Dean just couldn't bring himself to take it back.

Bobby sighed but relented. "Jess? Sweetheart, come over here and help me."

Jess hurried over and knelt next to Dean. John stayed where he was, which Dean found to be disappointing, even if it was what he wanted.

He struggled to his feet and followed Jess, Bobby and Sam into the study, trying not to look at the bloody trail that led the way. By the time he got there, Jess and Bobby were lowering Sam to the floor beneath the Devil's Trap. The second they had him settled, Bobby grabbed Jess's arm and pulled her out of the circle.

Dean waited, unsure of what to expect, what the demon would look like in pure form. But nothing happened. He frowned and took a closer look at Sam. His face was screwed up in intense concentration, and his jaw was clenched tightly shut. His fingers were clawing white-knuckled at the ground, and he was trembling with the pain and effort of whatever he was having to do. No doubt, he was much too far gone to have followed Bobby and Dean's discussion of the plan.

Dean moved to the very edge of the trap, getting as close as he could to Sam without breaking the circle. Never taking his eyes off his brother, he lowered himself gingerly to the floor and tried to get in Sam's line of sight.

"Sam," he called softly. Got no response.

"Sam, look at me."

The screams had stopped, but when Sam's eyes wrenched open, Dean knew for sure it wasn't because the pain had gone away. The effort it took for him to focus on Dean was visible.

"Sam, let go. You can let go now."

Sam gave a tight shake of his head.

"Sam, it's OK. He'll be trapped. He won't be able to hurt anyone. Trust me – it will be OK."

Dean watched Sam process that. It took a second, but then he gave a barely perceptible nod. His eyes slid closed again, and his body relaxed.

The effect was immediate. Dean couldn't imagine how Sam had held it back. A jet of black smoke exploded from his mouth, just like with the clerk at the hotel. It churned toward the ceiling, where it expanded to the edges of the Devil's Trap like the mushroom cloud from hell.

But not one wisp bled over the outer line.

Dean released the breath he'd been holding and sagged against the floor in relief. "Bobby – the book. We need an exorcism ritual."

Bobby hurried back to the piles of books in the front room. John chose that moment to speak up.

"Dean, you can't exorcise it."

Dean was so confused by that pronouncement that he forgot for a second to be angry. Exorcising this thing had been his dad's goal for two decades now.

"_What_?"

"You can't exorcise it. Exorcising's just a temporary fix. It'll just crawl back out."

OK, now he remembered that he was mad.

"But … " Dean open and closed his mouth a few times trying to wrap his head around what in the world John thought the alternatives were. "Dad – what other options do we have? We've got to get Sam to a hospital like _now_. You _shot_ him, in case you've forgotten."

John chose to ignore the taunt. "Dean, if we exorcise it, we could be doing this all over again a year from now. I've learned things in the past few months, since we found out about Max. That thing has _plans_ for your brother. We need to get rid of it now, or it won't matter if Sam makes it to the hospital or not. If we don't stop it now, Sam's going to wish he had died. _You'll_ wish he had died."

"No," Dean spat, categorically rejecting the possibility. "No way. I don't care what that things plans are, Sam's making it to the hospital. Now, if you've got some way to kill it in the next five minutes – some way that doesn't involve _shooting my brother_ – fine. I'm all for it. But otherwise? We're exorcising its ass now, and we'll figure out the rest later."

John's jaw twitched, and he looked away from Dean, down to where Sam was lying, apparently unconscious. His face lost some of its resolve, and he gave a sharp nod.

"OK, you're right. We get Sam to a hospital now. But we're not exorcising that demon, Dean. You and Bobby and the girl can go to the hospital. I'll stay here with it. As long as it's in the Devil's Trap, it should be stuck indefinitely. We should have time to come up with something."

"_What_?" When had John become so fucking stupid? "Dad – I don't think Bobby was looking for a new pet. We can't just leave a demon on the ceiling!"

John's eyes hardened again. "Dean, listen to me," he barked in a voice that up until about 10 minutes ago would have had Dean falling right into line. "You don't know what I know. If we exorcise it, you'll regret it. We'll all regret it. We've got to figure out a way to kill it, and for that we need time. You've got to trust me."

Which, of course, was the thing. Dean didn't trust John. At least, he didn't want to. But 27 years of conditioning were hard to ignore, and he felt himself wavering. He looked from John to Sam, up to the black smoke, swirling menacingly overhead, and back to John. He sighed wearily.

"Fine. As long as we get Sam out of there now, I don't care what you do with the demon."

Dean had to give John credit for not showing any hint of triumph when he nodded. He just knelt down at the edge of the circle, ready to pull Sam out.

Which is where everything went wrong.

John reached out toward Sam, trying to stay as much outside the trap as possible. But there was no clear boundary on the floor. He couldn't have leaned more than an inch too far in, but that was all it took. The smoke was on him in a fraction of a second, pulling him in and taking him over.

And then Dean was back to staring at yellow eyes and a cold smile.

"Bobby!" Dean yelled. Consequences be damned, he was exorcising this thing now. "We need that book!"

"Oh no," the thing said as Bobby rushed back in lugging dusty tome. "I don't think so. You're not sending me to hell, son."

"Aw, come on," Dean shot back. "Take it like a man. I hear you'll be out in no time, anyways. Besides, how're you planning on stopping me? Even with a body, you can't get out of that circle."

"You forgetting who I've got in the circle with me?" He shifted John's eyes to Sam.

Dean went cold, but did his best to keep his face blank. "Bullshit," he said. "Remember? You've already played all your cards in that hand. You've got _plans_ for him. You need him."

John snorted. "I'm not a Winchester – I've got backup plans. There are plenty of other kids where Sammy came from. And you know what? I know how to make more.

"Now. You're going to let me out, give me that damn gun, and I'll be on my way."

Dean swallowed hard and tried to look around without being obvious. He didn't even know where the Colt was. If he'd thought about it, he would have assumed John had it. But he apparently didn't, and Dean didn't see it lying around anywhere. He hoped it wouldn't matter.

"Yeah, like I'm just going to let you leave wearing my father. Bobby, start talkin'."

Bobby started the ritual.

"Dean. Come on. The man shot your brother. He ignored your calls for a month. Would have kept ignoring them, if it weren't for me. And he got you into this mess. We wouldn't even be having this conversation if he hadn't messed with things he ought to have known better than to mess with."

"You ought to have known better than to mess with my family," Dean hissed. He would have gladly handed the Colt over if he believed the demon would really let them all walk out of there. But he didn't. And besides, no matter how angry he was at John … he was still his dad.

John's face flinched a bit in pain, as the exorcism started to take hold. But the yellow in his eyes just grew brighter and his expression darker.

"Fine," he said. "It's your brother's funeral."

He looked down and Sam and Sam's body flew up into his arms, yanking Sam back into consciousness. The demon put one arm around Sam's belly and one around his neck and started squeezing. Sam hadn't even had time to cry out, he just started gasping.

Dean took a step forward, but stopped short of entering the circle, worried that entering might somehow make the situation worse. "Bobby, hurry!"

Bobby was tripping as fast as he could over the words, and from the grimace John was making, it was working. But not fast enough and in the meantime Dean was watching as even the small struggles Sam had managed to make died out.

"Sam!" he called frantically. "Dad – don't. Stop him, Dad, don't let him do this!"

When Sam's eyes fell closed again, he made up his mind. He stepped over the line, ready to pull Sam out of the demon's grasp with every ounce of strength he had left.

So he was on hand to catch his brother when the shots rang out – one two three four. Every one finding its mark.

John slid to the floor, and there was Jessica behind him. Still holding the gun.


	36. Chapter 36

Jess did not get married the next week.

Instead, on what would have been the second night of her honeymoon, she was at a moonlit funeral with the man who would have been her brother-in-law. That had to suck, Dean reflected.

"You know, you didn't have to come," he told her. It was the first time either of them had spoken since Dean had lit the pyre.

He didn't turn to look at her, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw her dart a swift glance at him.

"Yeah I did," she whispered, turning back to the flames.

Jess hadn't said much in the past week. Hadn't said much, Dean assumed, since she had dropped the Colt that afternoon. Assumed because Dean honestly couldn't say he would have remembered if she had. There were hours – maybe more – after Sam slumped into Dean's arms that Dean couldn't have given an account of if his life depended on it.

Some things he could have described in graphic detail. Like the way his ribs shifted when Sam fell against him. The sticky slickness of John's blood underfoot. The deafening sound of _Sam not breathing_.

The rest, though, was pretty much just a haze of pain and sirens and hospital smells, and Dean was sure that Jess had been there for all of it, but only because where else would she have been?

He sighed. Now was probably not the time or place to discuss this, but maybe if they went ahead and got it over with, he could walk away from here and never have to think about any of this ever again.

He cleared his throat, stalling.

"Jess. You … I … " He tried the clearing the throat thing again. "I'm sorry … about all this. That you got caught up in it."

She didn't say anything. Just stared at the fire in a way he could tell didn't have anything to do with seeing it. There was a suspicious shine in her eyes, but after the past few weeks he'd kind of gotten used to that.

Still. He sighed again.

"You … you did the right thing. You know that, right?"

She gave a bitter snort that was a close cousin to a sob. "I _shot_ your father."

" … Yeah." Again with the throat clearing, though it was legitimately needed this time. "But … you saved Sam."

The sobs started in earnest then. "Almost not," she stuttered, and Dean couldn't help a weary chuckle at that.

"First you're guilty about shooting him, and then you're guilty about not doing it sooner?"

She shrugged, obviously not appreciating the irony.

Another sigh.

"Jess – Dad, he … he would have wanted you to do that." He tried for a crooked smile. "He would have been pissed that you wasted so many bullets, but …" It got twisted up when half a sob of his own slipped past. "In a choice between him and Sam, he … I know he …" Deep shaky breath, and it was time to clear his throat again. "I have to believe he would have done it himself if he could have."

Silence.

Then: "But you wouldn't have." She looked him in the eye, challenging. "You wouldn't have done it if you'd had the gun. You'd have found some other way."

Dean found he was the one who couldn't hold the eye contact now. Because he didn't know. He didn't know what would have happened if he'd had the gun that night. Probably he'd have handed it over the first time the thing asked. And maybe his dad would be here, but probably not. More likely, he'd be out there somewhere, walking around with a demon inside, doing God knows what. And then maybe everyone else would be dead, because if Dean was honest with himself, he couldn't imagine the thing actually letting them all walk out alive.

He looked back up at Jess. "I'm glad the decision wasn't left up to me."

Jess took that for what it was, but didn't seem to find a lot of relief in it. "I doubt Sam will agree," she said.

Sam was still pretty out of it. Between the gunshot wound, the broken leg and the glass buried in the meat of his thigh, the surgeries had been multiple and serious – made more so by severe dehydration and the beginnings of malnutrition. He was going to be OK, the doctors promised, but for now it was taking some pretty hefty drugs for that to sound convincing.

So Sam hadn't been filled in yet on the way things ended at Bobby's. He knew John was gone, but not how or why. Dean wasn't even sure he really understood where Dean and Jess were, though he'd been told. However, that was probably for the best, because Dean was pretty sure Sam would have tried to insist that he should be there. But no way could he leave the hospital, and it wasn't like these things could wait when you weren't employing traditional embalming techniques.

Still. Jess wasn't the only one worried about what was going to happen when the fog cleared. If their situations had been reversed – if John had been killed to save Dean … Well, Dean was pretty sure he wouldn't have handled it well.

"Maybe not," Dean said, answering Jess's question. "But Jess, he loves you. And you did it because you love him. It … it'll be OK. Or as close as Winchesters usually get."

OOO

Dean wondered if that had been a lie a few days later as he passed Jess hurrying down the hospital hallway, her eyes puffy and determinedly avoiding his. She didn't stop when he called after her.

He pushed Sam's door open uneasily. Sam was staring sullenly out the window.

"Dude," Dean started, tentatively. "What'd you do to Jess?"

Sam pried his gaze away with obvious reluctance. He looks tired and confused and angry and guilty, all at once – it was only a small improvement over how he'd looked for the past week, despite the doctor's continuing admiration of his progress. Then again, Dean had been out of the hospital for almost a week, and the same description probably summed him up as well.

"What do you mean?" Sam grumbled.

"I mean she looked like you'd been kicking puppies in here. And she wasn't crying again yet, but I bet you $20 she is by now."

Sam let out a sigh. Between his own and Sam's, Dean was getting pretty dang sick of the sound. "_Dean_ …"

"_Sam_ …" Dean whined right back to him.

Another sigh, this time less tired and more … huffy. "What do you want me to do?"

"Uh, how about thank your fiancée for saving your ass, rather than making her feel guilty about it."

"_Dean_ .."

Dean didn't bother to return it that time. Just shot him a get-over-yourself look.

All Sam's righteous indignation bled out of his posture. "I'm not mad at her."

"Well, you're sure as hell doing a good impression."

"Yeah." Sigh. "I know. It's just … you know."

Dean gave his own sigh and let the challenge drain from his own body language. "Yeah. I know."

Sam shifted, obviously uncomfortable, and Dean felt bad. And then Sam spoke and Dean felt worse.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. It was a wretched sound. "I should have listened to you months ago. Years ago, even."

"Sam," Dean admonished softly. But Sam didn't give him a chance to go on.

"If I had listened when you told me this wouldn't work, that I'd never be able to pull off normal, Jess never would have been put in that position. And Dad would still be alive."

Dean shook his head, not quite sure if Sam meant what Dean thought he meant. "Sam, I never said that. That was the shapeshifter. We talked about this."

"Yeah, well." Dean could all but hear the 'doesn't mean it's not true' tacked onto the end.

"And besides – where would that leave you? Jess did the right thing, Sam."

"You don't really believe that."

"The hell I don't."

"Dean."

"Sam."

Silence.

Dean broke first. It was his turn to sigh again.

"Sam. It's … God. This didn't happen because you wanted a girlfriend. This happened because of Dad and that stupid gun. You don't have anything to be sorry for. If anything, _he_ –"

But Dean stopped himself there. Normally he didn't have a problem speaking ill of the dead – the dead so often did something to deserve it. But. This was his father. And, well …

"Dean – what?"

Then again.

He took a deep breath and decided to be completely honest. "He _shot_ you, Sam. If anything, he owes _you_ an apology. And I wish to God he were here to give it, but …" He trailed off and found that he needed another deep breath. "Anyway. You don't get to feel guilty about that."

"Dean, I had been torturing you for hours. What else was he supposed to do?"

"Gee, Sam. Double standard much?"

Sam just sighed and stared down at his hands twisting in his blanket. Dean saw the sigh and raised him an eye roll.

"Sam. Man. Come on. Think about this. It's finally over. We got it. The thing that killed Mom. Nothing's standing between you and normal now. And Jess loves you. And you love her. Just … don't throw that away. Dad spent half his life chasing the thing that ruined that for him. He wouldn't want you to ruin it for yourself."

Dean didn't know if that was really even true, didn't know if his father had ever thought about that at all. But he decided the white lie was worth it when Sam looked back up at him and some of the anger and confusion and guilt was gone.

OOO

It was a couple of weeks before it really _hit_ Dean.

I mean, yeah, you're slipping and sliding on your father's blood, and there's no getting around _feeling_ it in the very pit of your stomach. That horrible breathless moment when you actually tell yourself not to be so dramatic, this is not the first time you've thought he was dead, you're overreacting, obviously he's not dead because you wouldn't have let that happen, no way. Even then you have a sneaking suspicion that's just some sort of warped form of the denial people always talk about. Which means you're going through the stages of grief. Which means you have something to grieve.

But between his hospital stay and Sam's hospital stay and trying to hold everyone else together, Dean kind of got stuck there in the denial stage. He still wouldn't have called it that. Obviously he knew his father was dead. There was literally no denying it when you burned the body yourself.

Instead, he congratulated himself on how well he was handling it. Told himself that it had worked out better than anyone could have expected – the demon was dead, Sam was alive. John, he told himself, was with Mary, his quest fulfilled, his family safe.

And Dean was able to rock along like that for a surprising amount of time. He didn't think, when wedding preparations resumed, of how he wished his dad was there to see it – because truth be told, he didn't think his dad had been planning to come. And he didn't ever pick up the phone and dial John's number before he remembered or turn around expecting him to be there.

What finally triggered it, the punch to the gut that made Dean really _really_ realize that John was _gone_ was something so stupid. It shouldn't have meant anything.

But when he checked the post office box in Nevada, one of seven they had scattered around the country, and found the credit cards – one for Carlos Garcia and one for his son, Jose – he just broke.

Based on the postmark, the application would have been sent in not long after Dean had walked out of the Saginaw hotel room with Sam. Who knows – maybe it was filled out with one of Dean's unanswered calls ringing in the background. It didn't really matter. It was a peace offering. Until that moment, Dean hadn't even realized he needed one.

He sat on a bench outside the post office for about four hours, holding the cards in his hands, rubbing his thumb over the raised plastic of the names as if they spelled out John Winchester in Braille. Thought about how dumb he was for trying to convince himself that what had happened was for the best.

Got mad and snapped Carlos's card in half, then quarters, and chucked them in a nearby garbage can. Had to concentrate on not diving in to dig them out when he started to regret it. Went to a nearby bar and got a black eye and enough whiskey to make him fall-down drunk and didn't call and tell Sam that he wouldn't be back that night after all. And in the morning, he puked his guts up and tucked Jose's card into the back of his Dad's journal.

Then he headed back to Sam, glad his brother hadn't been around to see that.

He wondered what to expect from the bargaining and depression stages.

OOO

It wasn't what they deserved.

For one, it was small. A big, lavish wedding didn't seem right, so close on the heels of a funeral. And besides, with America's declining attention span, you postpone a wedding and you're bound to lose a few guests – maybe even a bridesmaid – along the way.

For another, it was outside. On such short notice, none of the good places were available. And California, outside in July is just no place for crinolines and cummerbunds.

And then it was all a little less shiny that it would have been. The groom was on crutches and swimming in his tux, and the bride had killed a man just over a month ago. That'll push you right past the moony phase of newly-wedded bliss.

But Dean figured most the people who had skipped out had already sent their presents. And that bridesmaid right over there? He'd be glad to help her out of her petticoats when the service was done. And he'd given Sam some honeymoon pointers that should go a long way toward putting the merry back in married – he'd even written instructions on Sam's cast, lest he forget. With illustrations. Good ones.

So, all in all? It probably wasn't what Sam had imagined all those months ago when he'd called to tell Dean his news.

But it wasn't so bad, either.

The End.

OOO

Whew. I was beginning to think I was never going to get there. Perhaps you were, too.

Another thanks to Mazza. If you liked this ending, you should probably thank her as well. She's not afraid to say, "no, try again." That does not, however, mean that she endorses this final product. Anything you don't like is probably something I was too stubborn to change.

Anyway. Thanks so much for sticking with me this far. If you did. I hope you did. And I hope I didn't disappoint. I would love love love to hear from you, good or bad. I'm planning to go back and revise this once I can stand to look at again, so it would be good to hear from you what is most in need of revision. Let me know. If you're too nice to tear it to pieces in public, feel free to send me a personal message. Seriously, I want to know.

And thanks to those of you who have been leaving comments. That's one of the most exciting things in the world.


End file.
